Devious Stares
by ISC
Summary: Shawn suffers a motorcycle accident that leaves him different for the rest of his life. Suddenly, his psychic fakeness isn’t so fake, and it really does hurt. Slash
1. Disco Superfly

**TITLE: **Devious Stares

**RATING: **Teen, for the moment.

**CHARACTERS: **All, mostly

**PAIRING: **Shassiter

**WARNINGS: **Um, some sexual situation later on, will announce if there is a rating change… and possible narcotic usage.

**SUMMARY: **Shawn suffers a motorcycle accident that leaves him different for the rest of his life. Suddenly, his psychic fakeness isn't so fake, and it really does hurt.

Chapter 1: Disco Superfly

There was a full-moon in Santa Barbra. The sky sparkled clear, softness lighting the streets of the city to appease the heavy minds of the people. Stars were a nice reprieve from the near-constant rainfall they have suffered through for the past week. Shawn Spencer was all too happy to pull down the visor on his helmet and straddle his bike. The weather had kept him from his baby and he was ecstatic to gear her up again.

Swerving around mud puddles with a practiced grace, Shawn let a smile tear at his mouth, full lips pulling into a toothy grin as the world inside of Santa Barbra flew by. The 'Psych' office had been in a lull lately, with people barricading themselves against the storms and with non-stop power-surges it was no surprise that they hadn't had any clients lately. Taking a turn with a flourish, Shawn laughed outright as he dodged a furry critter, his eyes flickered back to watch the creature scurry into the hedges, tail swishing after him. Turning back, Shawn's mind cleared of all thoughts of furry creatures as headlights turned the far bend, glaring into his eyes.

Shouting in surprise, Shawn tried to swerve, tried to break, to get off of the road, out of the way of the big, silver Ford coming toward him. No time, panic flared to life inside of him as he realized he was going to die, he wasn't going to avoid the 4X4, there wasn't time. Sucking in a breath, Shawn closed his eyes, fear took over as the front tire of his bike caught the bumper of the pickup, followed by the side of his motorcycle, and his body. Pain seared in his leg, ripping, tearing agony took over as his body flew off of his cycle, slamming into the pavement. Shawn felt the impact jolt through his body, his shoulder popped loudly in the night, his good leg scraped against the asphalt as he rolled onto the shoulder of the road.

Taillights lit up his sight as the Ford squealed away, lighting up the shards of glass and plastic that littered the road. Pain radiated through his body, throbbing into his core. The edges of his vision swam, bile rising in his throat, Shawn let loose a broken sob, heaving against the fire inside of him. The world faded to grey, pain flaring into his mind as he slid helplessly into the water at the edge of the embankment.

---

Carlton Lassiter was not a happy man. He'd finished up with the Landor case, finally, but was now waist deep in paperwork because he'd been forced to use his weapon near civilians. Sighing, the detective, _head_ detective, scraped a long-fingered hand down his weary face, fingers brushing over the five-o-clock stubble thoughtfully. It was late, nearing midnight, and the precinct was quiet. Desks were mostly empty as the suits had all gone home, turning over the office space to the boys in blue for the night. Downing the last of his coffee, Carlton decided to call it a night. Shuffling his things into a stack, he dropped them into his briefcase and shouldered his jacket. His hands shook with exhaustion as he reached to shut off his desk lamp, he could use a good solid eight hours in the sac. Sighing, Carlton turned to leave, hand gripping the handle of his case tightly, his foot had only just left the ground when the phone shattered the calm of the precinct. Turning his head to stare back at his desk, Lassiter sighted, body sagging, and reached for the black office telephone.

"Lassiter."

The background noise on the other end had the detective pressing the phone tightly against his ear to hear the woman better.

"Carlton Lassiter? This is Nurse Roberts at General Hospital, we have a one Shawn Spencer here and you were listed as an emergency contact."

Blinking, Carlton set down his briefcase, freeing up his hands to dig through his desk for his contact book, mind going ninety-miles and hour. Him? Spencer's emergency 'C'? "What happened?"

"Mr. Spencer was in an automotive accident, he was brought in twenty minutes ago, conscious, lucid enough to specifically request that we call you."

Frowning, concern laced through the brunette as Carlton snatched up his briefcase again, readying himself to move. "Is he stable?"

"For now, he's been prepped for surgery, but is now unconscious. We only have the ability to keep him alive and stable until his medical proxy gives us the okay to do more."

"I'm on my way." Slamming his phone down, Lassiter shook himself out of his stupor, hands steady as he took for his car, already dialing Henry Spencer's number. It was a quick trip to his car, quicker to unlock and buckle up, he was on the road before Henry picked up the other line.

"What? Don't you know what time it is?"

"Mr. Spencer?"

"Carlton?" Sounding much more lucid, Carlton hear sheets rustling, and the snap of a light being turned on. "What is it? Why are you calling me so late?"

"Shawn crashed his bike, the hospital called me, I'm on my way now. They need his medical proxy there to do anything to help him."

"I'm coming, where?"

"General."

"Good, did you call Burton?"

"No, I will though."

He could hear Henry moving now, the sound of a zipper followed by the jingling of keys. "No." Distraction laced Henry's voice. "No, just get to the hospital, I'll call Burton."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Okay." Hanging up, Carlton slipped his cell into his jacket pocket, hands tightening on the wheel, wondering why Spencer had asked for him. Specifically.

---

The hospital was lit up like a fluorescent hell. Light spilled out into the parking lot from the large windows framing the lobby. Slipping his gun holster into his glove department, Carlton strode into the hospital with an easy stride, confident, measured steps, disguising the worry with stoic professionalism. He stepped calmly up to the nurses station, eyes focusing on the slight woman behind the high-rise counter.

"I'm looking for Shawn Spencer."

The nurse looked at him briefly before tapping harshly on her keyboard.

"Are you Carlton Lassiter?"

"Yes." A few more taps and clicks and she smiled patiently at him. "The doctor has been paged, he's on his way to speak with you."

Blinking, Lassiter furrowed his eyebrows and stared down at the woman in confusion. "Don't we need his proxy?"

The nurse looked at him before glancing back at her screen. "It says here that you are his medical proxy."

"What? Since when?"

"Carlton!"

Turning, Carlton took in the sight of a bedraggled Henry Spencer striding down the hall, a concerned Guster with him. Both looked worried, sleep lines still lining their faces.

"Have you spoke with the doctor yet?"

Shaking his head to the negative, Carlton turned to lead the troop to the waiting section when the nurse tapped him on the shoulder with a clipboard.

"Mr. Lassiter, these are Shawn's consent forms, medical history and insurance papers, if you would?" She slid a plastic bag toward him, SPENCER was marked on the surface of it. "These are the items we removed from him before surgery."

Nodding, Carlton scribbled his name across the consent forms first, slipping them back toward the nurse, before taking up the clipboard and following a confused Henry back to the lobby.

Passing the plastic bag to Henry for him to dig through, Carlton also unloaded the insurance forms on Burton and turned to the remaining clipboard, history. He skimmed through to fill out the information he did know, DOB, age, social security number, (thank you Chief), address and full name.

For the rest he called out questions to both Henry and Burton, finding out that Shawn was allergic to penicillin and that he'd broken his leg when he was seven from Henry.

"Anything else?"

Gus looked up from his own board, eyes drooping with weariness. "Tonsils, when he was eight, um, arm when he was twenty and he was stabbed when he was in Mexico… when he was twenty-four." The younger man subtly ignored how Henry's head whipped toward him when he mentioned that last piece of information.

Snatching up the finished paperwork, Carlton stood to drop it with the nurse, he was wire-tight with tension. The Landor case had raked him through the coals, and now this business with Spencer had his stomach twisting more than it did when he got divorced. Down the row of chairs, Henry had wrestled open the plastic bag holding Spencer's things and was sifting through them gently, hands barely steady as he pulled out Shawn's helmet.

The plastic side was scraped nearly clean through, deep gouges dug into the thick plastic, the visor was shattered, remaining shards splattered with blood. Spencer's blood. The psychic's jacket was pulled out just as tenderly, the entire right arm was shredded, torn material dangled mockingly, soaked with rust-colored stains of dried blood. A slip of paper fell from the jacket when Henry folded it to put away, neither Gus or Henry noticed as Carlton reached down to pick up the small square. A business card. A green business card with thick orange lettering.

'Shawn Spencer

Psychic Detective

1-800-GO-PSYCH'

Smirking slightly, Carlton slipped the flamboyant card into his wallet, ever amused by Spencer's eccentricities. Stretching his legs out in front of him, Lassiter tried to relax, mind replaying the way Shawn had smiled when he'd plopped down on top of Carlton's desk that morning, eyes lit up with amusement as he annoyed the detective.

---

Spencer looked like hell. He was deathly pale, dark bruising covered the entire right side of his face, disappearing beneath the neckline of his hospital gown. His right arm was propped up in a sling, the shoulder bandaged heavily to keep it from moving. He had a thigh-high cast on his left leg and thick ace-bandaging wrapped around his ribs. He came out of surgery a few hours ago and was in ICU. Doctor Sweat had spoke with the three of them about moving Spencer to a room when he woke up, after he was out of the woods, so to speak.

Tossing his suit jacket over the plastic chair, Carlton shifted the pineapple in his hands before placing it on the bedside table. Clean-shaven and bone tired, Lassiter placed a tentative hand on Spencer's good wrist, fingers brushing the ID bracelet wrapped around his lower forearm. Glancing down at the Psychic, Carlton sighed and pulled away, his body sagging in relief as he sunk down into the chair beside Spencer's bed. So much for an easy Friday.


	2. Double Cherry Pie

**TITLE:** Devious Stares

**RATING:** Teen, for the moment.

**CHARACTERS:** All, mostly

**PAIRING: **Shassiter

**WARNINGS:** Um, some sexual situation later on, will announce if there is a rating change… and possible narcotic usage.

**SUMMARY:** Shawn suffers a motorcycle accident that leaves him different for the rest of his life. Suddenly, his psychic fakeness isn't so fake, and it really does hurt.

Chapter Two: Double Cherry Pie

**S**hawn could hear the people around him long before he worked up the stones to open his eyes. He could smell the weird mango-tangerine moisturizer his dad was wearing that day, and the Ralph Lauren cologne that Gus was sporting. There was even a hint of a fading JLO perfume, Jules had been there, and a subtle, Irish Musk that signaled Lassiter was lurking nearby, which made Shawn smile inwardly.

All around him the noises were pushing him down. Pressure pouring into his ears and clambering for dominance in his head, his body weighed a thousand pounds and his toes were made of cement. The ache started near the base of his skull, throbbing low and hard, in and out, like a million little gnomes were hi-ho-ing inside of his brain.

The noise thrummed through Shawn's head like an iPod on shuffle, constant streams of conscious not his own filtered through his brain, which, to be quiet honest, was really fucking annoying. Time slid by, unknowingly, days and hours filed by, marching unobtrusively though his cycle, but Shawn only heard the voices. The non-stop stream of thoughts, the half-formed words, the images, smells, tastes, colors of other peoples thoughts invaded his every minute.

Forcing his throbbing eyes open, Shawn was greeted with the sight of a sleeping Carlton Lassiter, slumped down into the visitor's chair, jacket off, tie undone and mouth agape. _'Huh.' _Even Shawn's inner thoughts sounded tired. _'Time really is screwed up when you're unconscious.' _

Struggling, Shawn sat up, pain lacing down his side like fire. Sucking in a quiet gasp, Shawn twisted his neck, peering down at his elevated leg, the stark cast already had the scrawl of Gus' name on the kneecap, he could just barely see the pink mark of Jules' name and what looked to be the signatures of the entire Santa Barbara police department. Shifting his shoulders, the psychic glowered down at his sling, hands twitching to be let free, to roam, to shove something sharp down the side of his leg cast and go to town on that itch on his calf.

Shaking his head in annoyance, Shawn peered sideways at the detective. Carlton looked very uncomfortable, head lulling to the side, neck twisted at a bad angle. Smiling to himself, Shawn stretched out his un-slung arm and wrapped his fingers around the brunettes wrist. Air swirled past his ears, the world tipped on it's axis and spun around Shawn's eyes, which he clenched shut, blocking out the lights.

He found himself on the side of the highway. Cool asphalt burned against the bare soles of his feet., wind swept past his knees, making his hospital gown flutter around him. Blinking, Shawn raised a hand to his throbbing head, the murmur of voices stirred in the back of his skull but he managed to push it back, pound it into the depths of his subconscious for now, to focus on the now. Stumbling forward, Shawn lifted a heavy hand to his throbbing head, blissful silence greeting his thoughts for the first time in what felt like years.

Shaking away cobwebs, Shawn peered around him in the darkness, the world beyond the small stretch of road was blurred, out of focus, blackness in the far distance. Turning toward the shoulder of the road, Shawn's eyes widened at the sight of the body. Jumping forward, Shawn's gown fluttered back, cold, stale air biting at him as he ran toward the body in the middle of the road.

The man was sprawled out on his back, dark blue jeans scuffed and torn, a familiar suede jacket had Shawn confused, body falling down to his knees beside the prone doppelganger. Reaching out with a timid hand, the pseudo-psychic brushed shaking fingers down the side of face before him, _his_ face, smeared with blood, slack with unconsciousness. Blinking, Shawn felt his jaw fall slack, thoughts jumbled with confusion.

"What the fuck is going on?" The night shimmered around him and the prone look-alike, stale air blowing harshly, vibrating in Shawn's ears, and just like that, Carlton was kneeling beside the unconscious figure. Strong hands carted through the other-Shawn's hair, stern features folded into a closed off mass of grief.

"What happened Spencer?" Lassiter's face was drawn tight, his voice graveled, tired. "Jesus, what'd you do to yourself this time?"

Blinking, confused, Shawn stretched an unsteady hand forward, fingers reaching to brush against the detective's cheek. Inches away from the Irish-man's face he could feel the sharp spike of cold air. Frowning, Shawn shuffled ahead, squatting further to look at Lassiter's face, hand growing bold as he stretched further to touch the man's face. The cold air brushed past his fingertips, sinking into the palm of his hand, a shimmer passed and Shawn's hand slid right though the skin on Carlton's face, sinking into the now flickering image of the detective.

Screeching, Shawn fell back, scrambling away, hands and bare legs scraping over the asphalt. "Holy shit!" Lifting his hand, Shawn examined the skin of is fingers, they looked pretty damn solid to him!

"Come on Spencer! Damnit!"

Head snapping up, Shawn watched with a detached fascination as Carlton pumped at the chest of Road-kill Shawn, movements jerky with panic. "God Damnit Shawn!"

Shuffling forward timidly, Shawn peered down at the bloody face of is double, still as death as Carlton worked on him. "Come on Shawn! Shawn! Shawn Spencer! Spencer…"

Gasping, Shawn shot awake, body coming back to him with a deep, painful throb. Looking around the hospital room, dim light streamed in from the hallway, the squeak of aide shoes assaulted is ears. Carlton was standing beside his bed, Shawn's fingers still wrapped around the detectives' wrist.

"Spencer? You awake?" Carlton's voice was harsh with exhaustion, deep lines around his eyes showed his lack of sleep. "I called the nurse, she's getting the doctor."

Someone had filled his mouth with sand, his tongue was loaded with rocks, weighed down in his mouth. "Lass…" Smacking his lips together, Shawn tugged the wrist he was hanging on to. "Lassie."

Lassiter was looming forward, eyes tight with concern, his face was shadowed with stubble again, clothes shockingly down played in jeans and the wrinkled, white, long-sleeved dress shirt. "What's going on?" He had wanted to ask for a razor for the hair on his tongue, but Lassiter had this intense, serious look to him that staved off the psychic's normally insane requests.

The detective peered down at Shawn for another moment, a beat of muttering flowed through the younger man's head but no real words stuck, before plunking down into the guest chair. A pale hand came up to run through his dark hair, still, somehow, keeping it's odd neatness. "You were having a nightmare Spencer."

Blinking slowly, Shawn frowned thoughtfully, eyes watching Lassiter. "So were you Lassie." He ignored the surprised look he received, instead drawing his hand away to rub at his sore ribs. "How long was I out?"

Lassiter relaxed in his chair, legs stretching out in front of him. "Three days excluding the few hours during your surgery. Are you going to tell me what happened Spencer?"

Closing his eyes, Shawn sunk back into the stiff hospital pillow and let a deep, bone-weary sigh escape him, suddenly dead tired. "I took my bike out for a joy ride, I was on State, going around the bend right before the bridge by the lake, you know? It was, like, midnight and this black Ford 4X4 jumped lanes at me! I didn't even get time to swerve before I was an asphalt pancake."

Groaning, Shawn heard a whisper in the back of his mind, a voice growing steadily in clarity and volume as Shawn stared over at Lassiter's thoughtful figure. _'Black Ford 4X4.'_ A pause, like contemplation, Lassiter's voice rang smooth like whisky in Shawn's head, rumbling past his nerves. _'Wonder if he saw…'_ "Did you see the license plate?"

Shaking his head at the awkward echo, the psychic looked away, a slow throb coming to his skull, a deep squeeze in his mind. Clearing away all thoughts of pain, Shawn breathed deep, bringing back the image of the accident, focusing on the truck, the flash of light he saw before his bike had hit. "E-E-M-0-7-J-6" Shawn blinked back in time to see Carlton climb to his feet, tucking away his black notebook as he lifted his jacket off of the back of the chair.

A flair of pain lit up in Shawn's head, the throb returning with a vengeance, all followed by a rush of words, Carlton's thoughts as the detective prepared to leave. _'Shouldn't leave… Henry worried… Call Guster… black 4X4... O'Hara… Johnson… 4X4... Spencer's sick… How'd he know… nightmares…'_ "Spencer, I'm going to run these plates, do you… ah… need… anything?"

Grinning at Lassiter's awkwardness, Shawn pretended to think, eyes shifting sideways to inspect to the bushel of pineapples at his bedside. "Something to tear into the glorious pineapples with!" He saw the twitch of Carlton's mouth, the fought-back smile.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks Lassie-face! I knew you cared!" Shawn watched as the detective left, eyes following the line of the older man's body. A fear crept up on him, he could hear the whisper of other people in his head, one growing louder as the on call nurse shuffled into the room. The fire behind his eyes shot down another nerve ending and the slow throb grew stronger. Pressure in his skull didn't keep the voices out, instead with them came flashes, pictures of the people thinking them. Little bits of their personalities came into his head. Small habits, like the taste for a certain cigarette brand or the fondness for country music, crept in. Habits not his own.

'_Poor dear. Look at that handsome face all beat up. Serves him right though, tossing around that psychic devil-speak. Taught him god not to mess with The Lord's word.'_ The nurse, despite her dark thoughts, smiled cheerily at Shawn, shoes shuffling on the tile as she tended to his monitors, checking his vitals.

"Doctor Benson will be with you in a few minutes honey."_ 'Look at those eyes! Them the devils eyes.'_ She swept out the room pretty quick after that, the prayer verse running through her head, and in turn, Shawn's.

Shawn was not a religious man, a bit atheist actually, but he wasn't naïve, he knew some people thought he was a devil worshipper, hell, he'd had people curse at him before. He'd never felt the malevolence before though. The thick, cloying smog of hate had seeped like a disease into Shawn's mind, unguarded it left him sick, stomach heaving from the sheer anger, from the _hate_ of the nurse. What the hell was happening to him?

----


	3. And Then There She Was

TITLE: Devious Stares

RATING: Teen, for the

CHARACTERS: All, mostly

PAIRING: Shassiter

WARNINGS: Um, some sexual situation later on, will announce if there is a rating change… and possible narcotic usage.

SUMMARY: Shawn suffers a motorcycle accident that leaves him different for the rest of his life. Suddenly, his psychic fakeness isn't so fake, and it really does hurt.

Chapter Three: And Then There She Was

Shawn was in hell. The screaming overhead lights of the hospital had him in fits all morning, blinding, energy-efficient, miserable florescent lights had him turning tricks to get the glare out of his suspiciously hyper-sensitive eyes. The day nurse had already come and gone to change his sheets and help him to the toilet, much to his mortification. He'd heard every rude thought that had run through her head. Angry thoughts that had left him with a bitter, rusty taste in his mouth. Not long after the angry nurse had gone, Doctor Sweat had stuck his head in the room to ask him how he was doing, leaving him with a fake smile and a buzzing in his head from over-active thoughts. Shawn was beyond ready to leave this place, to just find himself a set of crutches and hobble to freedom, but alas, his plans were foiled by the thick plaster cast covering his lower left arm.

As far as he'd figured from passing thoughts, he had already been here for little under a week, in and out of consciousness, and in and out of surgery. He had three brand-spanking-new pins in his right leg, keeping his bones from escaping his leg he figured, and some fantastic torn cartilage from his dislocated shoulder. Other than that and some nasty tears in his perfect golden brown skin Shawn figured that he should have been allowed to leave last night after he woke up for real. Doctor Sweat (who was cheating on his wife of twenty-five years with a night nurse), however, disagreed, he insisted that Shawn stay until this afternoon, when someone, Shawn suspected Carlton, came to get him,

The not-so-pseudo-psychic didn't want to wait however, he wanted out of this place as fast as he could. There were too many people here and Shawn thought he had hit his head harder than the CAT scan suggested with the way he was hearing things. Because as much as he flailed about, fondling the good head detective in the process, he was _not _psychic. He couldn't be, because psychics weren't real. Right? He was intuitive, he _saw_ things, he _remembered_ things, it didn't mean he could really hear people's thoughts, right? That was just crazy. Nodding to himself, Shawn let a small grin tug at his mouth as he thought of the shock on Lassiter's face when he'd mentioned that the detective had been having a nightmare as well. And the random surge of protectiveness that had practically radiated from the older man as he was leaving the room.

With a groan, Shawn pulled his pillow over his face and let his body do a frustrated rock back and forth. He couldn't be psychic! Wasn't his memory enough? He already saw death every time he closed his eyes! Why did he have to hear the living as well? The man ignored the tears that leaked from his usually bright eyes. Someone out there really hated him.

---

In the days that followed Shawn's motorcycle accident Carlton had barely been able to focus on his paperwork, let alone the beat. His mind kept replaying the idea that he was Spencer's proxy, _him_, not Henry or Gus, hell it wasn't even Juliet or the Chief! Why him? Why did that idiot make him proxy? The thought had tormented him while the fake was out, they didn't even like each other! He'd worked his way through a backup of old cases, solved by Spencer, that had been occupying the corner of his desk, waiting to be put into the system. He had logged half a dozen rounds in the firing range, blowing off steam as he tried to get his mind off of the green-eyed idiot. He had repainted his guest room and finally taken his ex-wife the box of her things she'd been bugging him about. Anything to get the green-eyed psychic off of his mind, but nothing had worked. Every time he shut his eyes he saw Spencer strung out in the hospital bed, hooked up to machines that helped him breath, checked his pulse and kept fluids in his body.

Tossing his stack of papers down, Carlton shifted his files into a semblance of organization and stood. His shift was over and he had promised Henry that he would go pick up Spencer from the hospital today. Letting his thoughts roll off his shoulders, Lassiter shrugged on his jacket and tucked his gun back into his holster, ready to be done with this place for the weekend while he got Spencer settled back into the guest room of the detectives' place. As the proxy Carlton was the only one the hospital would allow to sign Spencer out of the hospital, and out of pity, the detective wasn't going to force Henry down the fake's throat.

Heaving a heavy sight, Carlton palmed his car keys and lumbered for the door, sunglasses sliding home on his face as his eyebrows knitted together in thought. No matter what he did, he couldn't stop picturing Spencer's face from last night. The shocked, worn look of panicked surprise that swirled in the younger mans big doe eyes. Shawn's fingers had been white where they wrapped around the detectives wrist, his skin clammy and shaking. He had been disoriented, if only briefly, when he'd snapped to awareness. And as much as the thought tortured him, Lassiter had felt an aching sense of protectiveness, of _concern_, toward the man.

---

The ride to the hospital was near silent, the quiet murmurings of classic rock kept him from thinking too much, but Carlton still had the nagging feeling that he was missing something. He'd sent out a BOLO for the Ford 4X4 that Spencer had mentioned, along with a name and face for recognition. He suspected Alex Johnson, a 32-year-old active protester against Shawn Spencer's involvement with the SBPD. He was pretty well known in the area for his hate-filled speeches against psychics, believing them to be products of the devil, bringing corruption to Santa Barbara. What a laugh, as if _Spencer _was the reason people raped and killed children or set AIDS clinics on fire. Carlton didn't honestly think the fake had a hateful bone in his whole body.

Pushing his thoughts away, Carlton parked in the nearest space at the hospital's lot and walked casually into the hospital, arms swaying at his sides. His stomach was churning, the Chief had ordered him to obey the hospital's request to keep Spencer under his lock and key until he was at least out of his leg cast, which he knew was going to end badly. Him and Spencer stuck in the same stuffy place for upward of three weeks? Hadn't the Chief ever met Spencer? The man-child was not someone Carlton envisioned spending the next few weeks in close quarters with. Sighing, the detective braced himself mentally, plastering on a sneer as he breached the hospital entry, eyes searching for the loudmouth among the waiting families. The pseudo-psychic was near the nurses desk, tucked into a wheel chair with wooden crutches leaning against his shoulder, he was avidly discussing something with the forty-plus head nurse.

As he neared, Carlton watched the woman hand Spencer a few slips of paper, and the man smile beatifically at her, apparently pleased. Catching the tail end of the conversation, Carlton narrowed his eyes thoughtfully behind his sunglasses, brain working overdrive.

"Now remember Shawn, these pain killers here," She shook a piece of paper, a prescription, for emphasis. "will be okay to take with your SSRI's, but that doesn't mean you can skip one or the other. They're not replacements young man!" She shook her finger at the man's smile, her muddy brown eyes soft with fondness.

"Of course Nurse Roberts! How could I ignore my favorite nurse?" There was that smile again, stopping Carlton in is tracks as he observed a different side of Spencer. _'SSRI's? What the hell did Spencer need anti-depressants for?'_ Clearing away these thoughts, for the moment, Lassiter stepped closer, watching with a morbid curiosity as Shawn's head snapped in his direction, green eyes scanning the detective in an obsessive pattern, fluttering head-to-toe over him and everyone in the room. A large, delighted smile stretched across Shawn's face, eyes gleaming with mischievousness.

"Carly! How delightful to see you!" Shawn's arms swept out, fingers fluttering invitingly. "Come! Carry me out of this place! Sweep me off my feet!"

Rolling his eyes, Carlton put on a decent ruse of being exasperated, hand shooting forward to tug the slips of prescriptions out of Shawn's hands. "Get off it Spencer."

Smile widening, if that was even humanly possible, Shawn manipulated his crutches around to his front, hands slipping onto the grips in a way that suggested familiarity borne of years of hobbling on them. Heaving himself up, he looked pointedly at Lassiter's feet, where a black SBPD duffle bag lay, and then peered back up into the detectives' oh-so-blue eyes. "Do me a solid Lassie-face?"

Dread dropped solidly into Lassiter's stomach as he reached down to lift up Spencer's (stolen) duffle bag. "Come on Spencer, we're on a schedule."

"Goody!" Carlton heard the squeak of Shawn fumbling after him as the detective set a quick pace toward the parking lot. "I so love schedules! Did you print me out a copy? Is it laminated? I personally think all schedules should be laminated. Gus doesn't agree, he seems to think that they should be written in those little books, what do you call them again?"

"Itineraries?" Carlton wasn't really sure why he was aiding this dumbass, but the word had slipped out, unbidden, from his mouth.

"Yes! Thank you Lassie-bear! Anyway, just last week I was showing Gus my schedule, laminated, with color! And he tut'ed at me! Tut'ed! Can you believe it? Told me that it was a useless waste of plastic, as if his little book was more important! He only likes his little book because he can highlight it, Gus secretly loves highlighting, but you didn't hear that from me."

Sliding into the nondescript red car, Carlton resisted the urge to kill as Spencer continued to ramble on. And on, and on, and on. Sweet Justice, what level of hell was this? The ninth?

"And I was all; 'You think so?' At this point Gus is full out running in the other direction! The thugs weren't really that impressed though. I think they were just jealous that Gus was obviously a better sprinter then they could ever hope to be." Spencer's hands were flailing about much like he did when he was having one of his psychic episodes, eyes were flickering from one landmark to the next as they headed towards the detectives place.

"Wait, you're not just taking me to my dad's?"

Glancing sideways, Carlton couldn't stop the smirk at the completely flabbergasted look on the younger man's face. Psychic his ass! "You're staying with me, Chief's orders. Got a problem with that Spencer?" Lassiter tossed in a glare over his aviators for good measure.

"N…no! No! This is amazing! I love slumber parties! We can stay up late, swapping stories from our youth! I can tell you about the time I pledged Sigma Pi! Were you in a fraternity? Good times there. Though that time I was in Delta Kappa Delta, the sorority, was much more fun! Those girls, they have the craziest parties!"

---

Carlton's home was pretty much what Shawn expected, cold, detached, almost un-lived-in. There were no personal affects, no family pictures, no mismatched furniture, not even any dirty dishes or hidden porno mags in the bathroom (first place Shan had checked). Shawn had dropped his bag off in a smallish, off white room nearest to the only bathroom. It was a guest room, as obvious as any guest room could ever be, with a simple full bed, impersonal blue sheets and a simple blue comforter, a single, cheap, nightstand and two windows. Shawn loved it, it smelled like the detective, clean, with a hint of Irish Musk cologne. The pillow's reeked of the detergent Lassiter used, crisp like his pressed white work shirts. Perfect.

He had always figured that Lassiter was a cop even when he wasn't being a cop. The type of dedicated detective that hung up case files in his living room rather than pictures of his mother or ex-wife. There was a single television in the entire house, and that was a small 13" in the kitchen, tucked between canisters and the dish rack. However, much to the (sorta-maybe-kina-really) psychic's surprise and delight, Carlton did have a computer, a rather nice, year old, Mac. It was where there should have been a television in the living room, tucked up against the wall on it's own stand.

The kitchen was Shawn's other surprise, as he'd always figured that Lassie was crap at cooking, just kind of went with his whole, newly-bachelor image, but apparently he'd been severely wrong. The kitchen was laden with groceries, cupboards stuffed with utensils, spices lined up neatly on racks, recipes pulled out of books were stacked near the sink, small scrawling ink dotting the instructions. Apparently not only had Shawn been wrong, he'd been way off mark, Carlton appeared to be an attentive cooker, the recipes were filled with the detectives own side notes, time changes, temperature changes, recipe deviations. Shaking his head in amusement, Shawn dug through the pristine white 'fridge for something to drink, settling on grabbing two longnecks, as that's all that looked even remotely appetizing, and hobbling back into the living room.

Carlton was seated at his computer, long fingers rapping slowly but firmly across the keyboard, phone pressed to his ear, squeezed between his shoulder and chin. From where Shawn stood he could hear the chief on the phone, her voice was a little dark with anger, hidden underneath stress. Carlton's eyes were narrowed, jaw clenched tight with suppressed excitement, there was a case. A woman, mid-to-late thirties (Shawn was seeing crows feet, laugh lines, 37 this November), had been killed, strangled. Her neighbors had heard screaming, breaking glass, and then nothing, for three days. Her boss had called the cops only after she'd missed work for over half a week, the neighbors, ears pressed to the walls, hadn't bothered to call when they heard the screams. Her boyfriend of six months was the main suspect, with a history of spousal abuse and resisting arrest it was a safe bet. Unfortunately, he'd disappeared.

Reaching a hand forward, Shawn placed the beer down by Carlton's hand resting on the mouse pad before reaching up. He brushed his fingers over the computer screen where the pictures were of the scene of the crime. His mind felt heavy, thick, stuffed with wool, the world rushed past his ears and Shawn found himself in the room of the murder. Katherine Swimmer's bedroom. Stumbling, the man spun around, like before with Carlton, his casts were gone, his body relatively uninjured save for the deep throb in his cheek, the burn, he'd been slapped. There was an ache between his legs, deep in his gut, a burn where tears would be if he'd been raped, and he were a woman. Heaving a deep breath Shawn turned toward the looming figure in the corner of the room.

The man was huge, thick, broad shoulders looming in the dark. His breath was accented with a puff of spittle, inhale, exhale. His form was tense, fuzzy around the edges, shaking with rage. Shawn felt the tremble of hatred, deep, dark, festering hatred toward him. This man hated him. He wanted Shawn to die. No… Shawn blinked, glancing down at his hands, thin fingers, long nails painted red, a single butterfly ring on his middle finger. This man wanted to kill Katherine Swimmer. He hated her. Looking up again, Shawn saw this all, saw this room splattered with his pain, Katherine's pain. These walls thick with hate. With rage. Tears filled his eyes, Shawn was filled with a deep loneliness. A hazy sense of hopelessness. He looked up at the lumbering man's eyes, into the eyes of Alex Johnson. Those eyes, dark, soulless eyes, he'd remember them forever. The figure lunged.

Thick, clubbed fingers wrapped around his throat, the heavy body slammed into his, sending him back. He gasped, eyes wide, Alex was in his face, rage curling his lips showing off yellowing teeth. A knee came up, slamming between the psychic's legs. Once, twice, three times, hard and fast between his thighs where that slow, deep ache inside of him was.

Shawn's body convulsed with pain, hips jerked like he'd been electro-shocked. Gasping, the psychic pawed at his throat, fingers curved into a sick parody of claws. He could faintly hear Lassiter somewhere in the background, feel the detectives large hands pushing down on his shoulders, rolling him onto his side, forcing him to bend at the waist. His mind was filled with the ocean, thick, roaring waves rolled through his head, crashing against his skull.

A tall woman was imitating him, screaming through a narrowing gap in her throat at a large man. His mind flickered like an old movie, he could see biceps straining in front of him, thick hands were strong on his throat. Angry eyes dark with rage and hate. The monster kept muttering, hateful words falling out of his mouth, spittle splattering Shawn's face. "Bitch, you steppin' out on me? Fuckin' cunt!" Shawn was sobbing, body wracked with pain, fear consuming him. He couldn't hear Carlton here anymore all he could hear was this monster, this spitting beast, this foul demon. His fingers scraped down dark, rustic skin, leaving bloody welts in his attackers hands.

Alex lifted him by his neck again, slamming him back down against the floor, over and over he did this, Shawn could feel the darkness flooding in, the trickling of unconsciousness falling over his mind like water. And just like that, he was in Carlton Lassiter's living room, on the floor with the detectives hands on his shoulders, holding him down. In just that moment the only thing that existed for Shawn was blue eyes. Beautiful, bright blue eyes, staring with concern down into his own. Panic, shock, fear, worry, all these flooded into his body, his shoulders burned where Carlton's hands were. The cast on his leg was heavy, the one on is arm even more so, weighing him down, constricting him.

Gasping, panic seeped in, he jerked away from Carlton, free hand clawing at the cast on his arm, tearing at the thick plaster. Blood welled in his nail beds, ripping at his fingertips, he couldn't stop, he had to get the cast off, he had to get out! He was going to die! The monster was coming, he was going to kill him! Carlton's arms were on him, pulling him down, tugging him back, pulling Shawn's back against his chest. Thick arms came around the psychic, calming words filled his ears and head, Carlton's voice was silky in Shawn's mind, a smooth, calming balm over his fear.

"Spencer. Shawn. Calm down. Breath. Come one! Think, feel my chest, copy me, in, out. Damnit! Calm down!"

Taking a deep breath, Shawn sagged back against the detective, bone tired, the sudden panic flowing from him like a flash. Breathing slowly, deeply, Shawn let his head fall back against Lassiter's collarbone, eyes staring up into the detectives' own blue orbs. Even Carlton's mind was silent as the stared at each other, breathing together, chest to back, in and out. Calm. Letting a slow smile slip across his face, Shawn felt relieved tears fall down his cheeks. Letting out a shaky breath, Shawn rolled the words around in his mouth for a minute, feeling them up in his mind, sounding them out and went with it anyway. "Alex Johnson killed Katherine Swimmer."

A/N I said there would be ass kicking in this chapter, thank all for my class being canceled! I wrote my bum off for this, because it kinda kicked my butt. But, yay. It's longer too, as I vaguely remember a request for longer chapters, so I'm aiming to please!


	4. Hangin' Round

TITLE: Devious Stares

RATING: Mature, NOTICE THE RATING CHANGE!

CHARACTERS: All, mostly

PAIRING: Shassiter

WARNINGS: Um, some sexual situation later on, possible narcotic usage, **There has been a rating CHANGE. Notice the change people. Notice it!**

SUMMARY: Shawn suffers a motorcycle accident that leaves him different for the rest of his life. Suddenly, his psychic fakeness isn't so fake, and it really does hurt.

Chapter Four: Hangin' Round

Carlton Lassiter did not believe in psychics. Not even slightly. He was raised Irish-Catholic, his family was Irish-Catholic, and Irish-Catholic's did not believe in psychics. He'd been born into a traditional family molded after ancestors' past and his mother had tried her damnest to make him into the perfect mold of herself. However, much to the chagrin of Mama Lassiter, Carlton did not mold. It was not his style. He rebelled his mother's demands by joining the police academy, and furthered distancing himself from his stuffy family, and all five of his siblings, by becoming detective, _head_ detective. And yet, Carlton still did not believe in psychics. Until Shawn Spencer.

The second the motor mouth had stepped (more like flailed) into his life, Carlton had felt himself fall into a constant state of awe and confusion. Shawn was everything he hated; loud, obnoxious, eternally cheerful, and a _psychic_. All of this, however, did not stop the fact that Carlton did _not_ believe in psychics, even after all the crimes the faux soothsayer solved, and the countless 'baddies' put behind bars, Lassiter still didn't believe. Until said phony psychic ended up in his care, and started changing the detectives mind.

After the episode about Katherine Swimmer, Carlton had kept his mouth shut as he pulled Spencer up off the floor, plopped him down onto the sofa and passed him his beer. Spencer was shaking, sweat drying on his skin as he accepted the beer and gulped it down. The younger man's hands shook like a person afraid, small tremors sloshed the booze in the glass bottle as he lifted it up to his lips again to drink. The air between the psychic and detective was thick with electric tension. Where did they go from here? Carlton couldn't very well call up the chief and tell her that Spencer convulsed on his floor with visions and announced that their main suspect was indeed the killer.

He'd hardly believed his ears when the chief had announced that Alex Johnson was the boyfriend, the very man Carlton believed had run Spencer off the road was also the prime suspect in the murder of Katherine Swimmer. Closing his eyes, Carlton sat down in his computer chair, suddenly exhausted, wrung out from the stress of this whole ordeal. How had things gotten so complicated so fast? He knew Spencer expected him to call up the chief, to tell her that his 'psychics divinations' had led him toward Johnson. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Carlton gulped down his own beer, wishing suddenly that it was whiskey, strong enough to dull this pounding headache.

"Lassie?" Spencer sounded odd. Unusually subdued. Weary even.

Blinking slowly, Carlton looked up at the psychic, eyes zeroing in on those long, thin fingers as they picked at the label of the beer, dried blood flaking off his torn nails. "What Spencer?"

"You, um, gonna call the chief?"

Anger flushed through Carlton like lightning, consuming him quickly. Spencer seriously expected him to call the chief? Because of what? A psychic 'flash'? Slamming his beer down on the computer desk, Carlton aimed a dark glare at the younger man, teeth clenched in a snarl. "No Spencer, I'm not going to call the chief because you had another psychic _vision_, or whatever the fuck that was!"

Flinching back from the anger rolling off of the detective, Shawn swallowed down the rage in is throat, the foreign feelings were too hard to handle right now. Still stinging from his vision he was wide open to Carlton's feelings. Closing his eyes, Shawn suppressed the sudden urge to flip over the coffee table, to rage and scream and tear into the world, to rip the room apart. "Lassiter. Calm down."

Snarling, Carlton shot to his feet, chair flipping back onto the floor with the suddenness of his move. "Don't tell me what to do Spencer! It's bad enough I have to deal with your visions at the station, but in my own home? I don't think so!"

Smog rolled like waves down Shawn's throat, rage pooling in his stomach, disgust dripping down the back of his mouth. Licking his lips, the psychic sunk back into the cushions, shaking more visible as fear crept up on him. This day had been too trying. He had been able to block out other people's thoughts by rambling on nonstop earlier, but now he was wide open to the angry thoughts clouding the detective's mind. He knew that Carlton was scared, his episode had freaked the older man out, but he hadn't honestly expected this! This rage! The disgust. And it hurt. Worse than a gunshot wound, the disgust was a punch to the gut he didn't expect. "Lassiter… just, lets talk about his okay? I mean, I get that you don't believe me, like ever, but maybe you should just, calm down?" Licking his lips, Shawn was surprised by his own timid attitude. "_Please?_"

Gritting his teeth, Carlton came to himself, letting his anger fade as he noticed the sliver of fear, genuine _fear_ in Spencer's eyes. At him. Sighing, Carlton stepped closer to the couch and dropped down onto the cushion beside Shawn. Having watched Shawn in pain before, choking for reason's Carlton couldn't explain, sob in terror while in the throws of, whatever, had instilled a real streak of panic in the detective. He didn't know what had caused that 'episode', but he did know it wasn't faked, the light hint of bruising around the man's throat was proof enough of that.

Resting a heavy hand over his eyes, Carlton felt the shift beside him before strong, sure fingers began to rub at his shoulders, working away the tension like a seasoned professional. Peaking out at the green-eyed man, Carlton bit back a grin at the cautious look on Spencer's face. "Look, Spencer… I, uh, I'm sorry for blowing up at you."

Caution slipping away at the honest sheepishness coming from the detective, Shawn rested his cast encased arm on Carlton's knee, good hand continuing to rub away the other man's stress. "It's alright Carly-bear. I get it."

Dropping his hand, Carlton looked over at Spencer, body slowly unwinding from the soft ministrations of the 'psychic'. "Alright. Tell me why it was Johnson."

Pleased, Shawn was practically glowing as he perked up beside the detective, body turning fully to face his favorite detective. "Look, I totally know you don't believe in my awesome psychic powers, but I'm serious when I say I _saw_ Johnson." Pausing, Shawn lifted his bad hand up, shaky fingers running along the bruise on his throat, a throb of terror shooting through him, seeing Johnson's eyes again. "I saw him kill her. He…" Taking a breath, Shawn closed his eyes, fingers working along Carlton's neck now. "He beat her Lassie. He raped her." Stifling a sob, Shawn clenched his eyes, the fear he had felt still raw in his mind. "He was accusing her of cheating, but that wasn't why he killed her. She was a customer of Madam Zimbwe, the fortune teller, and he found out. He hates psychics, thinks we're agents of the devil."

Shaking his head in foul humor, Shawn let a surprisingly bitter smile pull at his lips. "I know people like him Lassie. I get hate mail from people telling me I'm going to hell everyday, but I've never felt such rage before." Looking up into Carlton's eyes, Shawn let his smile drop at the guilt in the other man's eyes. "Aww, come on Carly! I know you're feeling bad about loosing it on me, but I wasn't kidding when I said I got it, cause I do, you know?"

Looking away, Carlton shook his head. "I… don't believe in psychics Spencer."

Sighing sadly, Shawn let his fingers rest on Carlton's neck, the ends of the detectives black hair just brushing his fingertips. "I know you don't Lassiter, but I was hoping you'd believe in me. Just this once." Pulling himself up, Shawn snagged his empty beer bottle to throw away, Shawn pulled his crutches under his arms and hobbled toward the kitchen. "I'm going to turn in. We'll talk in the morning?" At the detectives nod, Shawn furiously pushed down the disappointment he was feeling that was all his own and headed toward the guestroom, tossing the bottle away as he passed. The bruise on his neck throbbed again and he knew there'd be no sleep for him tonight.

---

Yawning, Shawn stretched out in the bed, body arching like a cat as he woke. Having tossed and turned well into the night, it was nice to know he had eventually fell asleep. Glancing at his bedside clock, Shawn blinked at the early time and pulled himself up and onto his crutches. Rolling out the cricks in his neck, Shawn hobbled in the direction of the kitchen where he could smell bacon and hear Carlton's deep rumbling voice as he spoke on the phone. Grinning as he stopped in the kitchen doorway, Shawn observed a half-dressed Carlton Lassiter as he expertly fried up some eggs and bacon, phone tucked against his shoulder as he moved.

"Yes chief, no chief, of course. I will. Yes, Spencer had one of his _episodes_ and insists it's Johnson. No, Z-I-M-B-W-E, yes. I don't know. Okay, thanks chief, I will." Pausing in his cooking to set the phone down, Carlton froze when he saw Spencer in is doorway, an unreadable look on his face. _'How long was he standing there?' _

"Carly-Bear! Good morning!" Hobbling into the kitchen, Shawn sat himself down at the small table and smiled brightly at the detective, choosing to follow Carlton's mental pleas by ignoring what he'd just heard. "Whatcha making me?"

Shaking his head, Carlton turned back to his cooking in time to save his eggs. "Standard breakfast Spencer, make yourself useful and get the toast will you?"

Grinning, Shawn did as he was told, balancing on one leg at he piled the toast onto a plate and dug the butter out of the 'fridge to set on the table. "Who were you talking to Lassie-face?"

Sliding the food onto two plates, Carlton sat himself across the table from Spencer, handing him a plate and accepting the silverware offered. "The chief, say's they have found another body, of a fortune teller this time, Maya Jones?"

Choking on his food, Shawn coughed, reaching to gulp down his milk. He certainly hadn't expected that! "Maya's dead? When did she die?"

Refilling Shawn's glass, Carlton shook his head as the psychic ran a hand through his hair, the shaking wasn't gone. "They're putting it at sometime in the last two weeks, she was found in the park by a scout troop, from the cause of death they suspect Johnson. They aren't sure of the T.O.D because the M.E. was held up at another crime scene and we cant get a loan from inner-city forensics."

Closing his eyes, Shawn slumped back against his seat, head suddenly weighing a thousand pounds. "Strangled then? Damn, poor Maya."

"You knew her?"

Glancing up at the detective, Shawn offered him a shaky grin. "Yeah, I know all the psychics in Santa Barbara, we have monthly dinners at Mallory's Pub. She was, she has two kids in grade school. Donna Bell and Jordan."

Setting down his fork, Carlton shot a dark look at the telephone like it was at fault for Spencer's dark mood, and reached across the table to grasp the psychics' forearm. "Yeah, the chief said they're with their grandmother now, still in the same school district. Were you and Jones, uh, I mean, were you… _close_?"

Barking out a surprised laugh at the slight jealously coming from Carlton, Shawn let a real grin come to is face, turning his hand to wrap his fingers around the detectives wrist. "We weren't fucking Lassie, Maya was just a really good friend, I babysat for her a few times."

Embarrassed at his own possessiveness, Carlton looked down at their arms, brain on the fritz. "That wasn't… I, it's none of my business who you do Spencer." Pulling their arms apart, Carlton stared awkwardly over at Spencer who had a soft, calm grin on his face.

"But you want it to be." Picking up his fork again, Shawn went back to his breakfast, followed shortly by Carlton. The rest of the meal was silent.

---

After Lassiter left for the station, Shawn found himself stuck, bored and already going stir crazy. Having never been very good at sitting still, Shawn flitted from the computer to the small kitchen television to Carlton's bedroom, which also, didn't have porn. Now here he was, on the floor between the kitchen and living room, one crutch snapped in half and the other a good ten feet away. Apparently crutches did not make good pole vaults. Groaning, Shawn flipped over onto his stomach and climbed cautiously up, using the door jam the steady himself as he balanced on one foot. He knew that he was anxious because Carlton wasn't here and he was stuck waiting like a housewife while the detective was at the station. Freezing, a devious smile crossed the psychics face as the most brilliant of all brilliant ideas popped into his head.

Bouncing across the room, Shawn plopped down onto the desk chair and propelled himself through the house in search of a vacuum cleaner. After all, if he had to wait around like a housewife why shouldn't he clean like one? Finding a broom closet tucked away between the bathroom and Lassiter's bedroom, equipped with a broom, mop and vacuum. Chuckling to himself, Shawn snagged the heavy machine and set off to find a plug, wheels of his chair clacking loudly over the floorboards.

It had only taken three hours to scour the house from top to bottom, he had even scrubbed the toilet! Cleaning really wasn't easy when you were in a chair or hobbling around on one leg. Sprawled across the worlds least comfortable sofa, Shawn stared across the room at the computer monitor where he had downloaded the third season of _Friends_ and sighed. The cleaning had been fun, he'd played some music off of the computer and had a good reason to snoop as he moved from room to room with the vacuum and dust rag he'd found under the sink. Having wisely avoided Carlton's room, Shawn had done his best to resist moving Carlton's furniture around while the cop was gone. And now here he was, trying to ignore last nights vision that kept creeping up on him.

His hands still shook, making his broken arm ache from the constant stimulation. The lingering fear from last night was an elephant in the room as he stared in devotion at the small screen across the room. He could feel the small pinpricks in the back of his mind, the insistent tugging from the darkness he was trying to block out. The vision was trying to pull him back in, trying to get him to fall back to Johnson's dark eyes and thick hands. Wincing as his head began to throb, Shawn rubbed at his temple, shaking fingers loosing feeling as the world went wishy-washy around him. Moaning, Shawn tried to climb off the couch, body trembling as he reached for the phone, his arms gave out as he leant forward, chest and face collapsing down onto the floor. Grunting, Shawn pulled his legs down as well, good hand reaching up to search blindly for the cordless telephone. There was a violent jerk in his mind, hooks dug in tight, and Shawn was gone.

---

Carlton Lassiter was not having a good day, the chief was on his ass about the Johnson murders, insisting he hop the beat with O'Hara to find solid evidence, _right now_. She hadn't said why it was so much more urgent all of a sudden, but the head detective had wisely kept his yap shut and done as he was bid. He and his junior detective had checked out the local palm-shops, giving a heads up to the local psychics about what was going on with Johnson while snooping around for clues. They had all expressed loss at Maya's death, and each had asked the two detectives about Spencer's wellbeing, apparently the psychic wasn't kidding when he said they all knew each other rather well.

Having hit Madame Zimbwe's first, they weren't too surprised when her sign displayed evening hours as opposed to the normal day hours the other palm readers used. With the first stop a bust, Carlton had taken a temporary back seat in the investigation and let O'Hara take the head here, following her lead as she led him around the city, checking out the other psychics in town. The blonde junior was shaping up to be a decent detective, still wet around the ears on some aspects, but a good strong cop and a loyal partner. Carlton could admit he was proud of the way she was turning out, her demeanor had changed quite a bit from her first year with him, she'd grown to be a formable woman, hardheaded enough to be a good detective but level enough to be able to separate her work from her play.

Shaking his head to clear out his wandering thoughts, Carlton grimaced slightly as they stepped into Madame Zimbwe's shop well after regular palm shop hours. The thick incense cloying the air, thousands of candles making the shop hot and sticky. He watched as O'Hara frowned, her hand lifting to her head briefly, the scent was obviously bugging her. Catching her eye, he inclined his head inquiringly, a silent _'Are you alright'_ in his eyes. She smiled briefly and nodded, shoulders pulling back squarely as they passed through the beaded curtain to the main of the shop. Madame Zimbwe, or Georgia Brown, was a thick woman well into her fifties, she had a turban wrapped around her head and a layered purple gown covering her from her neck to her ankles.

Georgia Brown was well known around the town, much like Spencer, as being surprisingly accurate in her predictions and for that Carlton was both strangely comfortable and irritated in her presence. Straightening his tie, Carlton slid his sunglasses into his jacket pocket, standing quietly beside his partner as he waited for her to make her move. O'Hara took a miniscule step forward to draw the woman's liquid brown eyes to her, face carefully blank, showing none of the discomfort at the smell of the shop. "Ms. Georgia Brown?"

The woman smiled, white teeth flashing in the dark room. "Detectives, I was wondering when you'd get around to seeing me." Flickering her gaze over O'Hara, she dismissed the junior detective politely and locked her eyes on Carlton's tall form. "How's my boy doing Detective Lassiter? Not too much trouble I hope, Shawn always did have a way of creeping up under your skin like a chigger." The woman laughed at the surprised look on the detectives faces. "What? Shawny never mentioned you were non-believers. Guess it makes sense though, all things considered. Ah, best anyway, you'll change your mind boy, by the end of things. But that's neither here nor there, you're here about poor Katherine. Told that girl to get rid of that man."

Shaking her head, the psychic waved toward the empty chairs opposite her, jeweled fingers drawing the detectives out of their surprised stupors. Taking the offered seats, Juliet pulled out her notebook and smiled at the woman. "How long have you known Katherine Swimmer?"

"Hmm, it would have been two years this Thursday, girl came to me the first time that man hit her, crying all over herself, a complete mess. Another customer of mine, Joanna Saint, that's 3234 Westwood Dr." She paused while Juliet wrote down the address, a mysterious smile on her dark face. "Anyway, Joanna told her where to find me, from my understanding, Jo had told Katherine that I could help her. Make her feel better. As if anyone could make a woman in that situation feel better. That poor girl, she was but a pretty thing too, didn't understand why she never listened to me. I called the police a few times, you know, begged them to do something, but Kathie was an adult, and she always turned them away. After awhile I just set my mind to helping her heal, giving her a place to sleep, pushing the idea that she should leave that man into her mind."

Smiling sadly at the two detectives, Georgia reached down and picked up a folder off the floor. "This is a note that Johnson sent me yesterday, and a note Katherine had brought me, I hope it helps."

Accepting the folder, Juliet let a surprised 'oh' slip out of her mouth at the notes inside. "Thank you Madame! This will help." Smiling earnestly, she passed the folder to Carlton, who let a pleased smirk cross his face when he saw the incriminating notes. Juliet was handing over her business card as they stood, all smiles now that the lead had actually checked out. "If you think of anything, please call."

Nodding, the Madame followed them out, her long dress sweeping over the floorboards quietly. "Of course, don't be strangers now."

Following O'Hara, Carlton paused at the doorway, watching his partner as she stopped near the car and looked at him. Lifting a finger, he turned back to the psychic and frowned. "Spencer's doing better, he's a little beat up, but he'll live."

Smiling in delight, the psychic reached up and smacked a loud kiss to the head detectives cheek. "Thank you Detective Lassiter, you tell that boy to call me! Honestly, gave me quite the fright to hear he was in the hospital again. Don't know what I'd do with out him in this world, we need his soul here." Turning away, the woman waved him away with her bejeweled hand. "You come see me again, we'll talk about you not believing in us psychics."

Shaking his head, Lassiter pushed down the urge to roll his eyes and smiled tightly at the woman's back. "Sure."

---

Pulling his tie loose, Carlton heaved an exhausted sigh, body sagging as he trudged toward his door. After he and O'Hara had visited Madame Zimbwe they had circled back to the station to put in a request for a warrant, with the threatening notes they now had in their possession they had enough to get them a warrant to search Johnson's house. However the DA wasn't Carlton's biggest fan and had taken his sweet ass time taking the request to the courts, which had pushed back their search till tomorrow, much to the chiefs disgust. The rest of the day was spent with paperwork, pushing for warrants for Johnson's car and place of employment.

Rubbing at his neck, Carlton adjusted his grip on his briefcase, unhappy that the chief was forcing him to bring home the notes and case files to show Spencer, she wanted his input, insisting that this was more Spencer's case then anyone else's. Unlocking his door, Carlton dead bolted it behind him as he dropped his coat on the rack and briefcase on the floor, already toeing off his shoes beside Spencer's sneakers. It was strange, seeing his shoes lined up with Spencer's, it left him feeling a little lost at how much he liked the sight.

Rubbing at his temple again, Carlton headed toward the living room where the sounds of a sitcom were coming from, somehow knowing that his hard drive was suffering with Spencer here. Stopping in the doorway, Lassiter took in the room, the upturned table, the spilled glass of water across the floor and Spencer's prone form sprawled across his woodwork, jerking like he was having a seizure. It took two steps from the doorway to get to Spencer, three seconds to drop to his knees and five seconds to get Spencer on his back and have his head in his hands, long fingers tight on the man's stubbly cheeks.

"Shawn! Shawn? What's wrong, what's happening?" Rubbing his fingers over Shawn's cheeks, Carlton pulled the man into his lap, arm coming to brace him across the chest as he tried to wake the psychic. The younger man was moaning, sweat beaded on his forehead, tremors jerking his body around. "Spencer! Snap out of it!"

The psychic jerked again, body convulsing against Carlton's lap before falling still, chest rising with his breath but otherwise perfectly still. The tremors started again a few seconds later, slight now though, barely noticeable as Shawn groaned, head lolling in Carlton's hand, eyelids fluttering. "Lassie?"

Good hand lifting, Shawn ran his fingers over Carlton's chin, trembling digits clutching at the collar of his white work shirt. "Damn is it good to see your baby blues Lassie-face! I've gotta tell you, impeccable timing!" Smiling up at the detective, Shawn closed his eyes and went limp against the older mans chest, the vision he'd had was the worst one yet, violent like no other, full of rage as he witnessed first hand how Katherine had gotten that deep throb in her gut between her legs. He'd felt every vile touch, every punch and pinch and slap as he took Katherine's place in the past, as Johnson raped _him_, violated him. The touch still burned on his skin, fire lacing down his spine where that invisible throb was, aching. Clenching his eyes shut, Shawn focused on the strong hands on his chest and cheek, the long fingers that weren't Johnson's.

The terror was still there, the fear of being Katherine was a bad taste in his mouth that he knew he'd never be able to wash out. It was part of him now, just like Katherine's love for dogs filed away in his mind, part of him now. His body was his own again, and the aches that had been Katherine's were now his own. The wounds would stay, somehow he knew this, until Johnson was brought to justice. Shifting his body closer to Carlton, Shawn suppressed the helpless sob lodged in his throat, the helplessness that had been Katherine's was now his own. Forever.

---

Evidence A. Note from Alexander Johnson to Katherine Swimmer.

_Whore, I know what you've been up too. I know who you're seeing behind my back._

_You think I going to sit back and let you embarrass me like that? _

_You think you're too good for me?_

_You'll regret it. _

_I'll make you regret it._

---

Evidence B. Note from Alexander Johnson to Georgia Brown.

_You did this._

_It's your fault._

_I'm coming for you psychic._

---

Blinking, Shawn set down the notes in his hands, the protective plastic baggies sliding across the table. Carlton set a cup of coffee down in front of him, long legs straddling the chair beside Shawn's as he sat down. "The first one was the one from Swimmer, and the last one's from"

"Georgia. Yeah, it feels like her." Sighing, Shawn slumped back in his chair, head still throbbing from earlier. His visions were becoming uncharted territory with Lassiter. The detective got him to his feet and that was pretty much the crook of it, the whole scene was brushed under the rug like yesterdays dirty laundry. The notes were no real surprise, he'd gotten one, hand delivered from the chief because it had been delivered to the station, when he was still in the hospital. The words had been similar to the ones on Georgia's. Short, sweet and to the point. He'd given the note to the chief for evidence but hadn't expected it to be thrown in his face like this.

Carlton had handed him the case files on the Johnson murders, which included these notes. He was worried about Georgia, even though he had heard Carlton's thoughts and knew that she was being watched by two uniforms in civvies. This thought though, it didn't take away the nagging feeling that something was coming, something dark was about to happen. "I cant get a hook on the guy Lassie! It's… frustrating." Pushing the files away in disgust, Shawn downed his coffee and sighed again. "I know it was Johnson. These are definitely his work, but I don't know how to nab him for you."

A warm hand came down on the back of his neck, long fingers rubbing at the tense skin soothingly, under the ministrations Shawn went boneless, head lolling on his chest as he groaned. "I can feel him under my skin, just under the surface. I can practically _taste_ him!" Wincing at the accurate description to the disgust he was still feeling, Shawn leant into Carlton's touch, eyes searching out the detectives. "I have to catch this guy Lassie. I have to! I cant let him do this to anyone else. Its… do you know what he did to Katherine? Did you know what he did to her weeks before he killed her? Fuck, years! He's not going to stop either, I can feel it from these letters, from what I saw in his eyes in my visions. He's going to kill all of us. I cant let that happen."

Closing his eyes, Shawn smiled shyly at the press of those fingers on his neck. "Jesus fuck Lassie, when did things get so serious?"

Beside him, Carlton smiled bitterly, blue eyes worried. "I don't know Spencer. When that truck ran you off the road?"

Laughing, Shawn fell heavily against the chair, squashing Carlton's fingers as he let his head drop back. His laughter echoed slightly in the kitchen, hysteria turning it over in his mouth and soon Shawn was sobbing, chest heaving, tears rolling down his face as he lifted a hand to cover his eyes. Unstoppable panic gripped at his chest, filling him with terror all over again. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Johnson above him, those dark eyes staring in to his own. The hate that clogged his mind. He dimly heard the scrape of Carlton's chair as the detective knelt beside him on the floor, long arms wrapping around him, holding him close. No words were said, just the silent reassurance that he wasn't alone, that Johnson wasn't really here. That in Carlton's apartment Shawn was safe. If only just for now.

---

"Are they on to you?"

Dark eyes glared across the dim room at the voice, the flash of light in shadows as he smirked coldly. "Yes. But that fuckin' cop aint gon' stop me. Not when I get my hands on that fucking psychic."

Laughing, Tom Harold leant in close to his associate, smile making his moustache twitch. "I wasn't asking if it was going to stop you, I just wanted to know if I needed to get out of town or not."

Sucking deeply on his lit cigarette, Alex Johnson was all shark as he smiled maliciously in the small room. "Well, get going if you're gonna, but I aint waiting. You want left out? Then you never shoulda helped me with that Jones bitch!"

Shaking his head, Tom heaved himself up out of his chair, heavy set body lumbering across the room, suitcase clasped in a meaty hand. "I'm gone, I was expecting this. You know what they say about chickens." Chuckling at his own joke, Tom passed Alex a manila folder from his breast pocket as he was leaving, bad toupee shifting against his scalp when he pushed open the heavy door, wind blowing in his face. "Going to storm Alex, I suggest you get a move on pretty soon. Easier to see tracks in the mud."

Grasping the thick folder in his hand, Johnson's smile turned grim, eyes greedy on the small bundle. All he needed to take down that fucking psychic was in here. Everything. Licking his lips, Alex slipped a thick finger under the seal, already tipping the envelope sideways to spill out the papers inside. Dozens of photographs fell into his lap, the glossy surfaces shining from the single bare bulb lighting the far corner. The psychic stared up at him, smirking, winking, laughing. Growling low in his throat, Alex lifted up the newest shot, that damn lanky cop just barely in the frame. Shawn Spencer's handsome face stared up at him, green eyes glinting even on paper. Crumpling the picture in his fist, Johnson lifted the sheet of information from underneath the pile of pictures. Three short lines in the center of the page was all he needed. Spencer's address.


	5. This Must Be My Dream

TITLE: Devious Stares  
RATING: Mature  
CHARACTERS: All, mostly  
PAIRING: Shassiter  
WARNINGS: Um, some sexual situation later on, possible narcotic usage.  
SUMMARY: Shawn suffers a motorcycle accident that leaves him different for the rest of his life. Suddenly, his psychic fakeness isn't so fake, and it really does hurt.

NOTES: General time frame; Seasonally speaking, sometime in season three after _Lassie Did a Bad, Bad Thing_. Now, fictionally, here's a time frame; Thursday Shawn had his accident, the following Monday Shawn woke up from his mini-coma, Wednesday Carlton took Shawn home and Shawn got his first vision. Chapter 4 was a Thursday and this chapter is both Friday and Saturday. So it's been a week since the crash and only a few days since Shawn's first vision. Things are trucking along smashingly if I do say so myself.

Chapter 5: This Must Be My Dream

Shawn Spencer had never been one to complain. He'd always had the ability to roll with the punches. With the way Henry raised him it was no surprise that his lack of respect for authority had developed into a very 'come what may' attitude that infuriated his father to no end. Life had dealt Shawn a particularly harsh hand in a lot of aspects. His memory, though impressive, was also a burden. Working with the police had only proved this point to Shawn. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the days dead body like a picture of it had been branded into his eyelids. The stench of a corpse never really left you once you've experienced it. It was the type of thing that burned itself into your memory, popping out at the worst times, like when you were eating dinner or hugging your father.

Now that he was getting these visions, these honest-to-god real visions, of death and torture and pain, Shawn found himself terrified of his own memory. Afraid to close his eyes, afraid to see Katherine again, afraid to _be_ her again. His body ached with a pain that wasn't his own, keeping him awake at night when he should be sleeping, should be resting his weary bones. For the first time since his mother had left, Shawn was terrified to go to sleep. Now though, it wasn't his parents screaming voices from down the hall that kept him awake but the screaming of Katherine Swimmer as her boyfriend raped her, violated her body. As he held her down with his hands to her neck and choked her to death. The screaming of a woman in pain.

Rolling over, Shawn glared tiredly over at the glowing alarm clock, the digital numbers telling him it was only two am. Resigned to insomnia, Shawn pushed himself up, kicking his blanket down as he reached for his crutches. No use trying to sleep when his mind just wouldn't shut down. Hoping Carlton had some good booze stashed away somewhere, Shawn heaved himself up and propelled out of the room. Few people, meaning Gus, knew what was really in those pineapple smoothies he drank so religiously. Not to say they were always made special, but some days, when his mind wouldn't stop playing tricks on him, when he couldn't see anything but dead bodies, those days his smoothies were easily seventy percent alcohol.

He hadn't had a drop since last month, way before his run in with Drimmer, but he damn well needed a good strong drink now, if only to get the voices to stop. He knew SSRI's and alcohol didn't mix, which was why he'd cut way down on his binging since Gus had got him started on them, but he also knew the combination wasn't fatal, per se. And since he had no intention of getting on his bike or behind the wheel of a car, he figured he was pretty much okay.

Rifling through Lassiter's kitchen cupboards Shawn gave a quiet crow of triumph when his fingers curled around a familiar shaped bottle. Tequila tasted like ass on a good day, even 'good' tequila was 'bad' tequila in the end, but booze was booze and desperation dulled taste buds. Pondering the presence of said drink in Lassie's kitchen, Shawn poured himself a more than generous glass and stuffed the bottle back, promising himself he'd buy Carlton a new bottle one day. Downing half the glass in one go, Shawn let out the sigh he'd been suppressing, body visibly sagging as he sunk down into a dining chair. Adjusting his body, Shawn lifted his broken leg, resting it on the chair opposite him, fingers absently rubbing at the skin underneath the opening of plaster. It would be off in a week, then the doctor would give him an air cast to drag around. Anything was better than this though, it was hard enough to shower with the one on his arm, and down right frustrating to attempt it with both limbs bound.

Cradling his head in his hands, Shawn stared down at the wooden table top before him, some unknown voice whispering in his ear that Janet, Carlton's ex-sister-in-law, had given it to him when Victoria and kicked him out. Tracing lethargic fingers over the grainy surface, Shawn winced at the nag of pain he felt, Lassie was still smarting over the whole ordeal. Reaching for his drink, Shawn closed his eyes, thinking back to when he first met the detective. Back when his father had arrested him for grand theft auto, back when Carlton had that dorky, fresh-out-of-the-academy moustache and wet-behind-the-ears panic that Shawn had been associating with rookies since he was five.

He remembered how amused he'd been at Carlton, how he had been momentarily and instantly infatuated with those blue eyes and big hands. He had dreamt about those hands. He had thought about those eyes when his cell mate had called him pretty. It was funny, for the split second he'd known the cop some ten years ago he'd known Lassiter was going to be Head Detective someday, just from a glance into those eyes. Just like he knew now, staring down at Carlton's table, drinking his tequila, he was going to be Chief one day.

For a second Shawn saw himself in Carlton's bed, the detective laying beside him, hair graying a little more around the edges, but fingers still twined with Shawn's own. For a second he allowed himself to get lost in those blue eyes he'd fallen in love with over a decade ago, and he closed his eyes to sleep.

Shawn woke sometime later to find he had miraculously been moved to the couch during the night. His back was a little stiff from his time spent at the table but the uncomfortable couch was surprisingly easy to sleep on and the blanket draped over him smelt like Lassie. Rubbing his eyes, Shawn smiled at the glass of water on the coffee table, the little white note underneath, however, had him sitting up.

_'Spencer- I'll be home early, stop filling my hard drive with episodes of Friends! There's a smoothie in the refrigerator from Guster. Call your father before I shoot you. -Lassiter'_

Smiling at the complete Lassie-ness of the note, Shawn pushed himself up off the couch, wondering absently if he could convince Gus to come kidnap him for a few hours. He could use a good distraction and he really missed his buddy. Snagging the cordless on his way to the kitchen, Shawn's grin widened at the sight of the fresh pineapple on Carly's counter. Gus was the most awesome best friend ever.

---

Carlton Lassiter was having an exceptionally fantastic day. After waking to find Spencer sprawled out over his kitchen table, Carlton had happily moved the sleeping psychic to the couch, secretly finding the slight man cute. Not long after he'd gotten a call from the Chief telling him that there had been a sighting of Johnson at the local Quickie Mart. They had placed a discreet BOLO out on Johnson, hoping to alert the right people without giving anything away to Johnson in advance.

Soon after the chief's call Guster had stopped by with a few of Spencer's things and a handful of pineapple related gifts before departing with strict orders for Spencer to call both him and Henry. Traffic on the way to work had been surprisingly sparse, and in the span of five hours Lassiter and O'Hara had managed to track down two of Johnson's known associates and pull information from them both. They then managed to track down Johnson's recent activity and raise more flags on their BOLO as more evidence came to light.

Alexander Johnson, it would seem, had been quite the busy bigot. Spanning the last decade he had traveled the states, boycotting psychics, palm readers, alternate healers and spiritual guides. They had been able to trace no less than five out of state homicides back to him along with numerous cases of aggravated assault. At this point even Bomber, the stick up his ass DA, had been hounding Carlton nonstop for more evidence, hoping to stop Johnson before the bastard got his hands on Spencer again, who Bomber was shockingly fond of.

With a laundry list of crimes to his name, Bomber had been positive that along side seven known murders, four listed cases of aggravated assault, numerous instances of unlawful conduct and several hate-crime related violent acts, Johnson would go away for a long time. The case had the whole precinct on edge. Shawn was well loved within the walls of the Santa Barbara Police Department. The officers were fond of the eccentric idiot who could light up the whole precinct the instant he stepped through the door.

Tugging his tie loose, Carlton smiled grimly to himself as he contemplated the case. The Chief had sent both him and O'Hara home, still needing the proper go-ahead from the higher ups to execute out-of-state assistance for capturing Johnson. Chief was pretty sure that the Fed's were going to close in on this case in the end. With cross-country murders under Johnson's belt it wouldn't be that big of a surprise if they did.

Cracking his neck, Carlton dropped his briefcase by the door, shoes joining Spencers' against the wall. He could hear the psychic singing in the kitchen, some techno beat keeping tune with his startlingly good tenor. Shrugging off his jacket, Lassiter rolled his sleeves up as he stepped into the kitchen. Shawn was happily dicing up pineapple, tossing chunks of it into the wok of stir-fry sizzling on the stove.

Shawn's body was swaying to the music, balanced carefully on one leg as he adjusted the thick, yellow glove covering the cast on his arm. Grinning despite himself, Carlton tugged his extra apron over his head and stepped quietly beside Spencer at the counter. Shawn smiled brightly at the detective, already shoving a heap of raw chicken at him along with a spare knife.

"How's the case Lassie?" Shawn chirped, hands working away at an array of vegetables, body still swaying to the music.

Accepting the knife, Carlton began chopping the chicken up with quick, deliberate movements. "We've got a lead with some of Johnson's associates and a potential sighting. We're not positive but we're pretty sure we have caught his paper trail. We also connected him to several out of state murders which means…"

"That the Fed's will probably take over." Shawn interrupted, scooping the cut up chicken into the wok. "That fucking sucks! Means that the big boys will take all the credit and their sweet ass time pussyfooting around so nothing's 'circumstantial'." Huffing out an aggravated sigh, Shawn dumped soy sauce into the wok and turned to wash his hands beside Carlton'.

"Sorry Carly-bear, I'm just worried that the Fed's wont make this a top priority and someone else will get hurt."

Nodding in agreement, Carlton grimaced slightly at the thought of a further delay on his case and accepted the dish towel from Spencer. "Yeah, it's out of our hands though. If the Fed's take over I'll do my damnest to keep their eyes on the prize. Last thing we need is another dead body in the cooler."

Turning away from the sink, Carlton reached blindly toward the counter, eyes locked on Spencer as the psychic rummaged through the fridge, pulling out two beers.

"Ah! Shit!" Jumping back, Carlton curled his arm toward his chest, towel fluttering down to the floor as he cradled his burnt hand.

"Carly? You okay?" Stepping toward the detective, Shawn forced the older man's hand away from his chest with gentle hands, uncurling his fist to peer at the blister already forming on the side of Carlton's hand. "Damn, come on, lemme wrap this for you." Tugging the brunet after him, Shawn led Lassiter toward the bathroom, flicking the light on with one hand while he pushed the detective toward the toilet. "Sit."

The medicine box was above the mirror, tucked away at the corner of the shelf between Carlton's well placed fake plant (that had a hidden 9mm in it) and a box of condoms. Hopping wildly, Shawn used his crutch as a lever to balance as he snagged the box with the fingers on his broken arm, ignoring the twinge in his bad leg as he did so. "I knew you'd be prepared for a burn Carly! Only you would have this much burn ointment." Smiling at the detective, Shawn plopped himself down on the floor between the mans knees, reaching up to pull Carlton's burnt hand toward him while he popped the latch on the kit with his free hand.

Rubbing the slave onto the burn with slow, meticulous movements, Shawn peered up through his eyelashes at the older man, a slow smile tugging at his lips as he locked eyes with the detective. "How're you doing Carly-Bear?"

Licking suddenly dry lips, Carlton stared down at the psychic between his legs, body going limp at the feel of those fingers massaging his hand. "Fantastic." He sighed, head tilting back as his body relaxed fully.

Shawn carefully wrapped gauze around Carlton's hand, fingers smoothing over the soft material as he pinned it in place, mentally reminding himself to check it in a few days. Reaching up, Shawn braced himself on Lassiter's knee as he heaved himself to his feet, leg wobbling with lack of balance. Crying out, Shawn's hand slipped off of Carlton's knee, body heaving forward only to be stopped by the detectives hands on his biceps. "Geese…" Shawn breathed out, eyes locked with Carlton's again. "Thanks Carly."

Lassie's eyes were much prettier up close Shawn mused, hands coming up to rest against the detectives chest. He knew he should be pushing away, getting back on his own feet to go take care of dinner before they had to order take out, but he couldn't seem to pull himself away. Shawn would be the first to admit that he thought Carlton was rather attractive, in a gruff, Irish-detective way. Not that Shawn had a problem with that, no, in fact, Shawn had always been rather fond of traditional Irish looks. Strong jaw lines, tall, lean bodies, high alcohol tolerance and fantastically manly chests. Smiling, Shawn shifted forward, adjusting his legs so he was straddling the detective, cast digging into his leg but uncaring as he lifted a hand to Carlton's cheek.

"You going to freak out Lassie?"

Eyes locked on Shawn's lips, Carlton shook his head slightly. "What are we doing Spencer?"

"Well," Shawn shifted slightly, arms coming up to rest on Lassiter's shoulders. "I'm sitting in your lap, and you're letting me." Leaning forward, Shawn breathed out slowly, smiling to himself when Carlton shivered slightly. Either know he was the one asking Lassie, he was actually freaking out a little inside. Anyone with a brain knew he'd been flirting with the older detective since he had been arrested some three years ago. And now here he was, sitting in the older mans lap like he owned it, practically begging the other man to kiss him, and he was freaking out.

Shawn wasn't the type to get nervous. Not since high school when he ran from a date had he been nervous around someone he wanted to fuck. But Carlton, Carlton was different. Shawn wanted to fuck him, no doubt about that, Lassie had the hands porno's were made of after all, but he was also aware of some nagging voice in the back of his head telling him that he wanted _more_ than a few fucks from the older man, and damn, that terrified him!

Shawn wasn't an apple pie guy. He didn't want a white picket fence and a back yard with a dog and a hand full of ankle biting children running around underfoot. He just wanted a warm bed, a good fuck and the chance to get out before the other person woke up. Licking his lips again, Shawn lent closer, breathing in the unique smell of GSR, gun oil and Irish Musk cologne, body instantly reacting to the smell. "Lassie, I'm going to kiss you now, so if you have any objections you better speak up."

Not hearing a word from Carlton, Shawn tilted his head and groaned as the sound of the detectives cell phone ringing interrupted what was about to be the best kiss in history. "Damn."

This seemed to snap Lassiter out of his trance as he none-to-gently pushed the psychic off of his lap, already reaching for his phone. "Your food's burning Spencer."

Acknowledging the gruff dismissal for what it was, Shawn snatched up his crutch and hobbled out of the bathroom, hearing Lassiter talk to Vick on the other end of the phone. Shawn got flashes of a room in his head as he salvaged his stir fry. The thick, cloying smell of dirt and neglect clogged his senses as the sight of a warehouse filled his eyes. He could smell blood, distant sounds of someone, a young man, crying, filtered through his mind as he flicked off the burner and dished up the food onto two plates.

He set the plates onto the table, replacing the unopened beer he had set out earlier with colder bottles from the fridge as he set out silverware and grabbed napkins. Screams echoed in his head as he lowered himself to the floor, body tense with pain, dropping back so he was lying between the table and the counter Shawn clenched his eyes shut and let the vision take over his mind.

---

Anthony Van Dyke had been a psychic in Santa Barbara for just under four years. A rather good friend of Georgia Brown, Anthony, better known as Van, had stopped into her shop earlier that day hoping to chat with his older friend. Things had been stirring in the dark, bad things that had filled his nights with nightmares and his days with unsatisfied customers. Unsure of what was bothering him, Van had poked his head into the Madams shop after closing, hoping to catch Georgia alone to talk. Georgia, however, had been out and Van had left, disappointed.

Not much later he had stopped into Blair's Pub, hoping to find Shawn Spencer there, knowing the young psychic detective frequented the bar with his friend Gus, but had also been unsuccessful. Giving up on finding a fellow psychic to share his concerns with, Van had resigned himself to a night of drinking and hopefully picking up a nice looking fellow to go home with. A year ago he would have just called up Spencer to get together, knowing that the other man was always ready for a good fuck if Van wanted and that would have also solved his problem of needing someone to talk to. Sighing, Van signaled for another drink and turned his attention back to his fellow bar patrons. That option was out now that Spencer had set his sights on that good looking detective with the blue eyes. Not to mention that Shawn never seemed able to pay his damn cell phone bill and had gotten his phone shut off last week.

Catching the eye of an older man with broad shoulders and dark eyes, Van gave a flirtatious smile and lifted his drink invitingly. The bigger man made his way toward Van with a slight smirk, dark eyes locked on the psychics' own brown. What a good looking hunk of man Van mused, gulping down the rest of his drink so the handsome stranger would have something to buy him.

"Hey." Flashing another smile, Van accepted the drink from the taller man. "I'm Van."

The older man flashed a full set of pearly whites, dimples forming in his cheeks. "Alex. Lets get out of here."

Nodding, Van dropped a few bills onto the bar top and followed Alex out into the parking lot. They were silent as they climbed into Alex's rusted black Chevy, passing flirtatious glances back and forth as they hit the back roads leading to what Van assumed was a motel. Blinking away the sudden dizzy spell, Van rubbed his fingers into his temples, hands shaking. He didn't feel so good all of a sudden. Glancing over at the bigger man, Van's eyes widened at the intense look he was receiving from Alex and with it came a flood of disgusted hatred for Van. Gasping, Van reached for the door handle blindly, refusing to turn his back on the man. "What did you do to me?"

Alex smiled again, darkness seeping from his eyes as he reached under his seat, hand shooting forward, a wrench clutched in his meaty fist. Van didn't even have time to scream.

---

Shawn sat up with a scream lodged in his throat. He was dimly aware of Carlton hovering hear him in concern as he lunged to his feet and scrambled toward the bathroom, bile rising in his throat. Dropping to one knee, broken leg sprawled out awkwardly beside him as he heaved up his stomachs contents into the toilet, shoulders shaking. He could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks as he threw up, stomach cramping up. Van was dead. Pretty little Van who was an accountant but did fortunes on the weekends. Van who called his mother every day and liked anchovies on his pizza. Van who had said he was in love with Shawn a year ago only to have Shawn dump him.

Leaning back, Shawn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shifting his legs so he was sitting on his ass in the cold bathroom, legs sprawled on either side of the toilet. Carlton was hovering in the doorway and he knew he should probably say something to make the detective less concerned, but he couldn't. All he could think about was beautiful Anthony with his big brown eyes and baby face smiling up at him. He had only been twenty two, just a baby. Closing his eyes, Shawn slumped back against the wall, he wondered if Mrs. Van Dyke knew. If Van's litter sisters knew, if Georgia knew.

"Spencer?"

Rolling his head to the side, Shawn cracked his eyes open to stare up at the detective. "Yeah Lassie?"

"Are you alright? What happened in there?"

Blinking slowly, Shawn let a shaky smile pull at his lips. "Van's dead."

Flinching back, Lassiter stared down at the cell phone clutched in his hand. "I'm not even going to ask how you know Anthony Van Dyke is dead. Did you know him well?"

"Yeah, well, I used to." Shaking his head, Shawn scraped a hand down his tired face. "Do you have to go in?"

"No, Chief said that the Fed's have officially taken over. They were hanging around the station a while ago so I'm not surprised." Carlton sounded frustrated as he stepped into the bathroom and dropped down beside Shawn on the tiled floor.

"Van and I used to be pretty close you know?" Laughing hollowly, Shawn rested his head back against the wall, eyes sliding shut. "He was an accountant, worked some odd jobs for Georgia every once in awhile."

Carlton was staring at him, blue eyes lit with ill-hidden concern but Shawn ignored him, unable to stop talking because it blocked out the voices in his head, if only for a moment.

"Van was fun, he always kept me distracted when Gus was out of town. Always up for an adventure. This one time he took me downtown, looking for this new rave club, The Darkroom…"

---

_"You remember what I told you Shawn?"_

Shawn smiled up at his father, chubby hand wrapped around his Aquaman backpack strap while his other one was clutched in Gus' like a lifeline. Mr. and Mrs. Guster were standing beside Henry, sniffling into their tissues.

"I know dad! Don't talk to strangers, don't let go of Gus and look both ways, TWICE, before crossing any roads, not that I should, because there are no roads to cross from here to school."

Smiling innocently, eight-year-old Shawn tugged on his friends hand, coaxing him to run along side him as they waved back at their parents, already a block and a half away.

It was their first time walking to school without supervision since Gus's sister was officially in Middle School now and neither his parents or Gus's had time to get them to the Elementary before work.

"This is awesome Gus! Even if I do have to hold your hand."

Smiling over at his best friend, Gus nodded enthusiastically, his own Blue Power Rangers backpack was bouncing on his back, nearly knocking the boy over every time it slammed into his back with the weight of it.

"I cant believe my Mom is letting me go on my own! This is so cool!"

The two boys continued to chatter excitedly, never noticing the blue police cruiser following two blocks behind them, Henry Spencer's orange aviator sunglasses reflecting the morning light as he tailed his boy. Just like the two children never noticed him follow them home or to school the next day in a pattern that would continue well into their Middle School careers. With Henry in Shawn's life he was never alone, even if Henry had to keep twenty paces behind him and ten steps ahead of his boy his whole life, he was always there.

---

Bustling around the kitchen, Shawn sang along to the easy rock station playing from Lassie's computer, hips moving slightly as he attempted to dance while cleaning up the mess from last night. After his vision Lassie and Shawn had eaten a cold dinner and drank their way through a case of beer before collectively calling it a night. Lassiter had to be up relatively early to get into the station to 'keep his eyes on the Fed's' and Shawn had plans for Gus to pick him up before noon to go see his father and Georgia.

Plopping the last of the, now clean, dishes into the drying rack, Shawn pulled out the plug in the sink, already reaching for his crutches, once again mentally thanking Lassiter for picking up another pair after he broke the one trying to pole vault. Gus showed up just as he was shutting down Carlton's computer.

"Hey Gus-Gus!" Shawn hobbled quickly toward the entryway, yanking open the door before Gus had the chance to knock. His best buddy still had his doubts about Shawn's new found psychic legitimately, but he was taking it in stride, as much as he possibly could, especially after Shawn had helped him score a date with the pretty new girl in his office.

"Shawn!" Wrapping his arms around his friend, Shawn smiled delightedly, pushing out past his friend.

"Let's go Gus! It's been awhile and I don't really want to listen to my dad bitch about how I never bother to talk to him unless I need help on a case." Laughing at his own non-joke, Shawn hobbled after his friend to the Psych Mobile, mouth already going a mile a minute. He had really missed his friend.

"And Lassie actually has a really nice house, which is weird, but his guest room, which I'm sleeping in, isn't a torture chamber for criminals, and I think I have a crush on him, but he doesn't have a TV except for this really, really small one in the kitchen that doesn't have cable, but he has a computer, a Mac! It's pretty awesome, we need to get one for the office."

"Wait, Shawn, back up, you what?"

Smiling at his friends' confusion, Shawn rubbed sheepishly at the back of his head, laughing nervously. Gus knew that he dated men before, knew about Van actually, he actually had really liked Van, but with Carlton he was suddenly nervous about telling Gus, and he didn't really know why. Gus was his best friend! They might fight over everything, but Gus had never really disapproved of the people he dated, just _how_ he dated them. "I said that Carly has a Mac?"

"No Shawn! I mean the part about you having a crush on _LASSITER_!"

Wincing, Shawn picked nervously at his cast. Maybe he was nervous because he actually liked Lassiter, for more than just a fling or a casual fuck. "I said that I think, I mean, I'm pretty sure that I have a crush on Lassie."

Blinking slowly to adjust to this new information Gus drove for a few minutes in silence. Logically he had known this piece of information three years ago when Shawn hadn't stopped talking about the blue eyed detective who was sleeping with his partner, _who wasn't that pretty and he could do much better_. But logically knowing something and hearing it from the horses mouth were two very different things entirely. And now that Gus knew from the horse himself he was a little shocked that he hadn't noticed the small crush growing enough for Shawn to actually mention it.

Aiming for Best Friend Of The Year Award, Gus ignored the fact that it was _Lassiter_ who had caught Shawn's eye, because Shawn could do worse and had done worse in the past, and cleared his throat to timidly ask "So, are you going to date him now?"

Laughing, Shawn patted his friend reassuringly on the shoulder, touched at the shock of support he was feeling from his friend. "I don't know Gussy, but if I do manage to convince Lassie of my sheer awesomeness **and** get him to date me you'll know before he knows. Three-day-boy-scout's honor."

Grinning over at Shawn, Gus pulled smoothly into Henry Spencer's driveway, bumping fists with Shawn before they slid out of the car. Henry was grilling up steaks on the back porch when they found him, pausing long enough to slap his son happily on the back before pushing them both down into chairs. "You harassing the detective Shawny?"

"Dad! I'm appalled that you would ever think of me as the type of person who would harass one of Santa Barbara's finest!"

Waving his spatula dismissively, Henry grinned over at his boys, flipping his steak on the grill. "So sorry son, hand me a beer would ya?"

Obliging his father, Shawn passed one to Gus and happily took one for himself, leaning back in his chair to watch his father cook. "How you doing Dad?"

Looking back at his son in surprise, Henry turned to hide his proud smile. "I'm good, your mom called about you, went fishing with Danny, same old."

Smiling widely at the wave of pride he felt, Shawn gulped down his beer, already opening a second one when Henry passed around the steaks. They chatted amicably as they ate, busying themselves with their food and beers. Gus and Shawn stuck around long enough after eating to help Henry clean up, Shawn managed to polish off another two beers before leaving with Gus, happy to note that Gus hadn't said one word about his drinking, yet.

Henry had been more than happy to cook for his boys Shawn knew, having felt the hidden joy from his father the second they had pulled into the drive. The emotions rolling off his dad had surprised him, he'd always known that somewhere deep down inside Henry loved Shawn, that underneath the gruff disapproval was some type of affection. Thus the sheer amount of compassion and pride he'd felt from his father left him staggered with shock and feeling all of thirteen again, overwhelmingly overjoyed to have his fathers approval, however unspoken it was.

Shaking his head at his own train of though, Shawn waved at his father as Gus pulled away, the sun was high in the sky as they headed downtown to where Georgia's shop was. Her palm shop was close enough to Lassiter's place that Gus was going to drop him off and Shawn was going to catch the bus back from there so Gus could go into work for overtime. His mind was still caught up on Van and Shawn was hoping like hell that Georgia cold give him some perspective on the whole thing. She had always been able to make him feel better when even Gus couldn't. She had always understood his misery with reliving every death he saw, she had never expected anything from him which had been a lot like what he suspected having a grandmother who liked him would have been like. Georgia had found him when he was in high school, just after his mother left when he had started fighting with his father. She had been working street booths and county fairs at the time, and she had managed to convince Shawn to talk to her for free. Shawn, who was still smarting over a particularly harsh fight with Henry, had allowed himself to be coaxed into a debate with the woman over psychics versus voodooists, which had distracted the teen from his life. Shawn had fallen in love with the woman that night. She had spoke to him like he was a person, not a child, and hadn't expected him to know the answer to a question or to count the hats. She had just expected him to be himself, to not have to keep her laughing or to impress her with his skills. She had treated him like he had always hoped his mother's mother would. Like he was worth knowing. Like he was worth more that a passing thought and a good smack around the head.

Shaking his head, Shawn stepped into Georgia's shop, eyes adjusting quickly to the familiar darkness of the little place. "Georgia? G? I know you're here!" Smiling, Shawn pushed past the beaded curtains, eyes lighting up as he caught sight of the dark skinned woman, her decorative beads glinting in the candle light. "Georgia!"

Weaving around the desk, Shawn waited long enough for the older woman to climb to her feet before wrapping his arms around her neck. "How are you GeeGee?"

"I'm good boy! How are you, back up, let me see you." Shoving him back with strength that was surprising for her old age, Georgia checked Shawn over with a critical eye. "I had a feeling you'd be getting a gift boy, I just didn't expect you'd have to go and get run over by a car to get 'em!" Laughing at her own joke, Georgia, waved Shawn toward the customer chair, lowering herself back down into her own as she did.

"Now, tell me about these visions."

---

Carlton rubbed at his tired eyes slowly, hands shaking from exhaustion. It was after ten at night, having spent the better part of the day playing go-for for the Feds, Carlton was more than happy to be home. They had cased the scene of Van Dyke's murder, collecting evidence that continued to stack up in Johnson's disfavor. The thought that this bastard had managed to, once again, stay a step of him had Carlton on edge. He was pissed as hell that the Fed's had been able to elbow their way onto the case, and don't even get him started on the fact that the Chief was talking about putting on him a separate case entirely.

Tossing his briefcase down, Carlton jammed his jacket down on the rack, shoes sailing into the general direction of the wall. He stalked into the kitchen, intent on finding and downing the very same tequila that Shawn had been drinking not to long ago. Rifling through his cupboards, Carlton snatched the tequila from it's place and didn't even bother with a glass as he slammed back a good mouthful of the vile drink. Shuddering, Carlton took another smaller drink before finally realizing that he hadn't heard or seen Shawn since entering his apartment and it was hardly late enough for the psychic to be asleep.

Setting down his tequila, Carlton made his way toward the guest room, pausing long enough to check that the psychic wasn't crashed on the couch again before pushing the bedroom door open. Frowning when he saw the empty bed, Carlton made his way back to the kitchen, thinking about who he would call first, Henry or Guster. Reaching the kitchen, Lassiter picked up his bottle of tequila and turned to the phone, frown deepening when he saw the blinking answering machine light, a deep sense of dread dropping into his stomach. Tentatively reaching forward, Carlton pushed the play button.

_You have one new message. Saturday at nine-thirty-eight p.m. "Detective, it's Georgia Brown, Shawn left here at seven but he left his wallet, that damn boy would forget his head I swear. I'm having me a bad feeling so you tell that boy to come pick it up tomorrow, okay? Goodnight honey." End of messages._

Freezing, Carlton barely felt the bottle slip from his fingers and smash to the floor at his feet, the booze soaking his socks and the bottoms of his pants. Spencer wasn't here, and he'd gotten a call from Guster when he had dropped the psychic off at Browns' after visiting Henry, so he knew that Shawn wouldn't be at either place. Which meant Shawn was missing. Taking a deep breath, Carlton pushed back his panic and reached for the phone, already dialing O'Hara's number as he headed for his room to change pants. Spencer better hope to hell he was missing, because if Carlton found him at a bar he was going to _kill_ the psychic.

"O'Hara? Meet me at Spencer's office in ten minutes."

"What? Why?" He could hear O'Hara's door as she left her apartment even as she asked him this.

"Spencer's missing."

"Shawn? Okay. I'll call Gus."

"Good. Ten minutes." Snapping his phone shut, Carlton tossed his soaked pants into the bathtub as he passed back by the bathroom, pausing only long enough to slip on his shoes and grab his jacket before leaving his home, his concern for Spencer fueling his movements.

He hadn't really thought about the bathroom incident since it happened, having been too caught up in work, then Spencer's _episode_, so it took him by surprise that the thought of his almost kiss with Shawn was at the forefront of his mind as he started up his car. Now was hardly the time to be thinking about such things but he couldn't seem to stop it. He'd almost kissed Spencer. He would have too if his phone hadn't interrupted. God knows that he found the younger man attractive, he had let the foolish man sit in his lap, twice! Shawn had a way of working himself under peoples skin, worming his way down into their hearts and their lives, forcing people to move over and make room for him in their lives whether they wanted to or not.

Now Spencer was missing, while in Carlton's care non the less, and Lassiter knew that he'd never be able to live with himself if something ever happened to Shawn while he was supposed to be watching over him. He would never be able to look Henry in the face, let alone Guster. Not to mention he'd never get to find out if the psychic's lips were as soft as they looked. Frowning, Carlton turned into the Psych parking lot beside O'Hara's car, switching off his car. He'd find Shawn. He wouldn't let anything happen to the man, not only for Henry and Gus but for himself. He still wanted Spencer to tell him to his face that he had been lying three years ago when Carlton arrested him. He wanted Shawn to defrag his computer and buy him a new bottle of tequila. He wanted Shawn to finish what he started in the bathroom. He wanted to find out how soft Shawn's lips were and whether or not he tasted like pineapple.

Shaking his head, Carlton ran a hand through his hair, shoulders squaring as he stepped up to O'Hara in front of the Psych office. Nodding to his junior, he stood quietly beside her as they waited for Gus to arrive with the key. He'd find Spencer, if it was the last thing he did.

---

A/N: Okay, so this took awhile but it's really rather longer than the last few. And to clarify, SSRI's are anti-depressants, when mixed with alcohol, which is a depressant, it can increase suicidal thoughts and behaviors and in some cases cause increased anxiety and behavior. But these instances are rare and most doctors only recommend that you limit yourself to one or two drinks, not cut out drinking entirely.


	6. I Had So Much Time

TITLE: Devious Stares

RATING: Mature

CHARACTERS: All, mostly

PAIRING: Shassiter

WARNINGS: _For this chapter:_ physical violence, sexual and physical

Summary: Shawn suffers a motorcycle accident that leaves him different for the rest of his life. Suddenly, his psychic fakeness isn't so fake, and it really does hurt.

NOTES: OMG, I hate finals. Thank Hawaii for summer break! *dies*

Chapter 6: I Had So Much Time

Shawn Spencer was in pain. His body ached from the uncomfortable position he had been forced into several hours ago, and his back screamed to be able to stretch. Arching against the hard metal chair, Shawn groaned. According to every criminal movie he's ever watched, Shawn should have been able to slip his ropes by now. However, James Bond is apparently on a Chuck Norris list somewhere, because try as he might, for all the struggling Shawn did against the thick ropes wrapped tightly around his wrists all he got for his effort were some rather nasty rope burns and some minor blood loss.

The overwhelming fog of fear clogged his mind, tremors wracked his bound body as he fought off the cold and terror he felt. He could smell the rusty tang of dried blood in the warehouse, the dust that stirred on the floor and the stale air of an abandoned building all burned down his throat. He knew, _knew_, that beautiful Tony had been killed here, he could hear his cries and screams echo in his own mind like a soundtrack to this terrifying horror movie that was his life. Chest throbbing with pain, Shawn took this moment of alone time to allow himself a second of inappropriately placed reflection. His body was screaming with pain that wasn't entirely his own, his mind was a jumbled mass of confusion and foreign thoughts. He felt old and young, giddy and depressed, and he was slowly but surely losing track of which emotions were his own.

These psychic vibrations were no longer all that fun, he didn't feel like faking for the police anymore and he'd be quite happy to hand over his newly discovered supernatural prowess just to _go home_ and curl up on Lassie's couch. Shaking away cobwebs, Shawn squinted his eyes and tried to make out the shapes in the darkness. The warehouse was stereotypical, thin walls, tall ceilings and a bare quality that Shawn found wanting. He could feel Johnson in the back of his head, lingering there like a sickness, just beyond the throb from where he'd been hit.

_What use was being psychic if he couldn't sense a Louisville Slugger coming for his head anyway? _

He just knew Lassiter was going stir crazy with Shawn up and missing, probably already had the entire Santa Barbara Police Department on the look out for him. No doubt the BOLO on Johnson had been upped to an emergency status, as Shawn was well aware that though he wasn't a cop or a detective, he was still considered a member of the SBPD and therefore, an invaluable asset to society. He imagined that Gus was probably beside himself with worry and Henry was most likely thinking up new and exciting ways to eviscerate Shawn once he was returned safe and sound.

There was a desperation to his thoughts as he fought back pained, frustrated tears. In the shadows as familiar hulking figure emerged, and with it the thick, cold sludge of fear slid slowly down the back of Shawn's throat. Shawn's eyes locked with the shuffling form and Alex Johnson smiled in the dark.

---

Screams echoed throughout the warehouse, the floor beneath Shawn's chair was slick with blood and tears and pleas to _stop, god stop_. The thick stench of pain and terror rolled in waves up Shawn's nostrils and clogged in his throat, under the agony the psychic could hear the mantra running through Johnson's mind. The angry words filled with hate and rage, terrifying words describing all the things he wanted to do with Shawn. The thick, clubbed fingers of Johnson's right hand held tight to Shawn's hair, holding the younger man's head back as he drew a pentagram into the flesh of his collarbone, knife scarring the unblemished flesh there.

Shawn's body was already carved like a jack-o-lantern, fresh wounds carved all over his bared chest like a sick child's art book. Reverse crosses were carved into his pectorals, more pentagrams and old Celtic designs drawn in blood over his body. His muscles flexed and jumped with every dig of Johnson's knife, stomach rolling with sickness as he got marked up. He hated Johnson right now. More than he'd ever hated anyone in his entire life, Shawn hated Alex Johnson. And not just because the sick bastard made a living spewing hate-filled hypocrisy to anybody who would listen, gathering fellow like-minded bigots to a pointless, angry cause. But because of what people like Johnson caused.

People like Johnson caused events like World War II, wars of hate and violence and fear. People like Johnson sent death threats to Shawn's Psych agency, sent him boxes filled with pictures of himself from newspapers covered in red paint and marker. Filled his answering machine with screaming rants of anger and hatred. Shawn had never mentioned his _other_ fan base to anyone. Never really saw the point before, but now he was seeing the reason for fear, the reason to take those death threats and hate filled letters a little more seriously.

Zealots like Johnson, people who were filled with so much hatred and narrow-minded fear, they were people to not take lightly, and Shawn made himself a promise. A promise that when he survived this whole mess, when he got out of this place, he would step a lightly around people this, he would stop taking each threat and letter as a joke and stop pretending they didn't exist. Hell, if Johnson didn't kill him, he would even show Carlton the bag of hate mail he'd saved on a whim.

Shawn wasn't naïve, he wasn't a person who slipped on a pair of rose-colored glasses when he woke up each morning. He knew the dangers of the world, the dangers of people. He'd been faced with it since he was eighteen and had left home. Crossing the country alone had opened up a whole world full of wonder and fear to Shawn at a young age, and he'd faced it all head on and shoulders high. And it wasn't until this very moment that he realized that for all of his worldly knowledge and impressive intelligence, it didn't mean shit when you were faced with true evil.

There was a wickedness to every move that Johnson made, every slick smile and angry thought was belied by fear and corruption. The tension in the air crackles dangerously every time Johnson sinks his knife into Shawn's chest, his orange shirt torn down the middle, falling uselessly by his bound hands. He felt exposed before the murderer, chest bared to the world, old scars were hardly visible in this lighting, but the new ones glistened mockingly up at him. He was completely open to the murderer, laid bare before him, unable to defend himself against the older, larger man. Unable to stop the monster from dragging his knife over Shawn's body, digging the blade into his flesh over and over.

Rage coiled around Shawn's throat like a collar, choking him as Johnson wrapped his empty hand around the psychic's neck, squeezing tightly.

"I'm gonna make you pay you fucking worthless psychic bastard! I'm going to make you suffer like you should, spewing out lies and deceit." Angry words spit from Alex's mouth, spittle splattering along Shawn's tear streaked face.

"I know what you're up to with that faggot detective as well whore, I know you just want to have him fuck you up the ass." A sinister edge crept into his words as he pulled back, heavy hands dropping down to his belt buckled, stubby fingers flicking the button contemplatively as the bloody knife clattered to the floor. "Wonder if that fairy cop would want you if I ruined you before I killed your sorry ass?"

Gasping at the assault of lust, Shawn felt bile rise in his throat, disgust churning his stomach. "No, _nonononono_, please no. Just, just kill me, you don't want this, wouldn't want to… to taint yourself would you?" Sobbing, Shawn stared up at the murderer, body convulsing with terror as he watched Johnson unbuckle his belt.

"Don't worry freak, I'm not going to fuck you, I'm just going to show you what you're worth."

---

Tears dripped down his face, mixing with the blood leaking form the wound on his temple and the cum splattered across his cheeks. Humiliation bled his cheeks red as his head hung limply against his chest, Johnson had left not long after shaming the psychic, rage and hate rolling in waves after him. He had worked the ropes on his hands even as Johnson tortured him, knife digging into Shawn's flesh, drawing satanic symbols into his chest and shoulders. The cast on his wrist had given him much needed leverage as he worked the knots with his good hand, deft fingers tugging at a centimeter of slack between his cast and the knot.

Now, some hours later, abandoned in a rundown warehouse, blood, tears and shame running rivets down his face and neck, that slack was slipping over the thumbhole in his cast, triumph steadying his hands. _'I will not die here.'_ Even Shawn's thoughts shook with humiliation and fear, trembling under the mantra of Johnson's dark thoughts that lingered in the back of his skull. _'I'm gonna get these ropes off, untie my feet, wipe off my face, find my Carly-Bear and get my goddamn kiss!'_

Suppressing a sob, Shawn let the ropes drop from his fingers, hands sagging in relief as he brought them around to his lap. "Thank god." He gasped, good hand lifting to wipe the fear off his face before bending down and working on the ropes binding his feet. "I'm am showering for a week when I get out of here."

The ropes slid free, obviously not as well-tied as the ones that had bound his wrists, and Shawn worked his way to his feet, body achy and tired but filled with determination. He knew where Johnson was right now, he knew where the bastard slept, ate and worked, because even though he couldn't sense when someone was going to piñata his skull he could read their life story like a book when they had an orgasm.

Licking his lips, Shawn stumbled forward, hands stretched out searching for the baseball bat he knew was still here, tucked away in a corner and smeared with his blood from when the bastard had cracked his skull. His fingers wrapped around the slender end of the bat and in that instant he felt the ground slip out from under his feet, the air suddenly tight as he saw out of Johnson's eyes, saw himself waiting patently for the bus when a large man waddled up beside him and asked for the time. He felt Johnson's sense of familiarity toward the man and knew now that he'd been duped, that it had been setup and that he wasn't just being paranoid when he felt the eyes directed at him today.

He came out of the vision with a jerk, body swaying as he hefted the bat up on his shoulder and turned toward the exit. _'Have to get out of this place, have to get to a phone and get Lassie-face over to Johnson's place.'_ The cock of a gun, however, had him freezing in place, cast encased leg barely supporting his weight as he swayed, the musk of Johnson's hate clouded over his mind again and he cursed himself for not paying attention.

"Where do you think you're going freak?" With that rasping, rage filled voice, Shawn knew he was going to die.

Tightening his hold on his bat, Shawn shifted his balance on his broken foot, loosening his arms as he quickly whipped around, bat catching the momentum, body twisting into the swing. The crack of the bat hitting a solid body was drowned out by the startling boom of a gun, and two bodies collapsed onto the cold concrete of the warehouse floor, alone.

---

Someone, somewhere is watching a sunrise, the beautiful hues of pinks and reds and sultry oranges bursting across the horizon, light glistening off the early morning dew, tiny reminders of twilight. However, in Santa Barbara, beneath the heavy air of evening, Carlton Lassiter lifted his blue eyes to the sunset and sighed in disgust. The light in his life seemed a little dimmer today, a little less exciting and thrilling as he walked down the boardwalk. His gun holster pulled taut across his broad shoulders as he rolled his neck, fingers gripping tight to his cell phone, pressing it against his cheek in hopes of hearing a familiar voice on his answering machine. Shawn had been missing for little over a day, too soon yet to get the blues out searching, but not too early to convince people to volunteer.

Somehow Shawn had not only wormed his way into Carlton's life, but into his daily routine, it wasn't just expecting the psychic to be there, cooking dinner when he got home from work, but the expectation of another, _incredibly intelligent_, input on one of his harder cases. It was the glance in the rearview mirror and into those sparkling green eyes in the back seat, the smell of pineapples and rain and freedom that came with the whole, fake (maybe not so fake) psychic package. It was waking up in the morning and seeing someone else's shoes beside his own in the hall, someone else's jacket hung up beside his own on the hook and someone else's toothbrush on the sink.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, Carlton hung up on his machine and jay-walked across the street, body swaying confidently as he contemplated his next move. The chief had him and O'Hara focusing all of their attention on the Johnson case, and coincidentally Shawn's disappearance. His cell rang from his breast pocket as he pushed his way into the coffee shop on the corner, frowning in annoyance, Carlton lifted his phone out of his jacket, flipped it open and pressed it to his ear.

"Lassiter."

"Carlton? We found Johnson's hideout."

The world became a blur as Carlton darted from the shop, body moving swiftly through the crowds of people to where he could see the red and blues flashing in the distance. All this time spent on this very block, and Shawn was three fucking blocks away in an abandoned warehouse leased to Alex Johnson's father back in 1993. All this time spent walking the beat, head wrapped around the constant string of murders and Spencer's disappearance, and he'd been here the whole time.

Forcing himself to focus, Carlton's weapon found it's way into his hand as he rounded the last corner, already ducking under police tape and snatching a vest from Buzz as he skidded to a stop beside his partner, hands shaking.

"Do we know?"

O'Hara shook her head, eyes narrowed as she helped her partner strap on his vest. "We've got three around back, two on roofs and about 10 uniforms out here. There's a bus on the way, if Shawn's in there, we'll get him out."

Nodding, Carlton peered around at his group, jerking his head at Buzz to get him up into the front line. "Let's do this."

---

It was sad to say that the warehouse was so very stereotypical _action movie_ in appearance, it had the thick layer of dust that left both detectives uncomfortable and the stench of abandonment and neglect clogged the air. The evening sun slanted from the high windows, through the dirty glass and onto the equally dirty floor.

Guns drawn and arms steady, Carlton led his partner into the darkness of Johnson's hideout, shoulders tense, ready for action. The silence was deafening as they walked down the narrow hall, footfalls muffled on the dust. Rounding the last corner, Carlton pressed his back to the doorway, shoulders drawing up as he peered around the door and into the open room. There was a still body on the floor not 20 yards from him, a growing puddle of blood pooled toward the door.

Slinking forward, Carlton tugged his flashlight free from his belt, flicking it on with a practiced move as he dodged the blood on the floor. A familiar orange shirt caught in Carlton's light, brownish blonde hair glinting in the dark. Sucking in a breath at the sight of his fallen _friend? _Carlton holstered his gun and crouched down. O'Hara was speaking rapidly into a walkie, hands visibly shaking as she tried to not look at the rivers of blood surrounding her friend.

Pressing his fingers to Shawn's neck, Carlton felt his body sag in relief at the feel of a steady, if weak, pulse, hands already smeared with blood. The body beneath his hand jerked, moaning as Shawn rolled onto his back, green, feverish eyes opening to peer up at Carlton.

"Lassie? I'm getting serious déjà vu here."

Shaking his head, Carlton shrugged off his jacket and tucked it around Shawn's shivering form when he saw the useless shirt slide off the psychics bloody chest.

"Shut up and concentrate on staying alive Spencer."

Chuckling weakly, Shawn lifted his good hand up to Lassiter's cheek, fingers brushing down the strong jaw line. "So, about that kiss?"

Laughing, Carlton knocked the hand away and stood up as the medics rushed in. "Later Spencer."

---

Wiping away the sweat on his forehead, the brunette laid himself out on the dirty motel bed. His head throbbed painfully, lighting shocks rocked down his spine every time he took a breath. Pain screamed in his head every time he moved. Groaning, he toed off his shoes, body aching with the pain of running, of working to escape, of hiding from those fucking pigs.

Little China was not a very inconspicuous place for a gringo to hide, let alone a convicted murderer like Alexander Johnson. Lifting a heavy hand to his face, Johnson growled in anger, he had let that little fucker get away. The freak had shown more resilience than he'd expected, having slipped his ropes and clubbed him upside the head. Not for nothing though, Alex had managed to carve up the freak pretty good, and shoot the bastard son of a pig in the arm before running. If he hadn't of heard the sirens he would have stayed to mess up the psychic some more, as it was he would have to contend with a few new wounds and that gunshot hole till he managed to get the freak alone again. Grinning at the thought, Johnson fingered the scar on his neck, thick fingers turning sluggish with exhaustion. His last thought was of the psychic freak's soon to be bloody death before he drifted to sleep.

---

Not for the first time Shawn found himself waking up in a hospital room with a sleeping Carlton Lassiter for company. There was a disturbing familiarity to the whole situation that left Shawn's head spinning. He could smell the familiar tang of pain and fear and love that seeped from every pore of the hospital, the lights in the hall hummed with life while the nurses bustled about. Henry Spencer was on his left, chin resting against his chest as he snored softly while Gus was reading a manual at the foot of Shawn's bed, feet propped up beside the psychic's like it was his own bed.

"Gus?" Shawn's voice was thick, heavy with exhaustion and pain.

Gus's head snapped up at the gravely sound of his best friend's voice, manual finding it's place on the floor as the tall man jumped out of his chair and scrambled to the side of the bed. "Shawn? Oh thank God, you've really got to stop getting yourself put in the hospital, it's terribly inconvenient."

Grinning, Shawn bumped fists with his friend, already spreading his arms when Gus leaned down for a hug. "I'm so sorry my agonizing pain is inconveniencing you Gus-Gus."

Laughing tearfully, Gus pulled himself up, discreetly wiping at his eyes. "How are you feeling buddy?"

Blinking himself to awareness, Shawn smiled tiredly. "I'm alright Gus, better then that time in Mexico if that means anything."

Gus's hands seemed to unconsciously keep touching Shawn. On the cheek, on the neck, on the shoulder and on his chest before settling, finally, on Shawn's hand, fingers curling around the psychic's gently, thumb rubbing over his friends knuckles.

"You want anything?"

Chancing a glance at his father and then over to, a now awake, Carlton, Shawn grinned up at his buddy again, body finally feeling awake. "I could use some pudding. Pistachio only!"

Slanting a speculative look at the detective, Gus rolled his eyes and smiled, patting Shawn on the hand before turning away. "Sure, be right back."

Watching as his friend left the room, Shawn pulled himself up into sitting position, body protesting slightly he groaned slightly, smiling when he felt warm hands on his back.

"How are you doing Spencer?"

"Honestly? I've been better Lassie-face. Wish Johnson hadn't escaped though."

Nodding, Carlton sat down beside Shawn on the bed, hands folding in his lap as he let some of the tension run out of his shoulders at the easy subject. "The chief and the FBI are on it. The BOLO has been heightened."

Itching at his arm cast, Shawn smiled tiredly. "Yeah? That's awesome. I can tell you where he lives, if you don't know."

Chuckling, Lassiter shook his head. "No, we already have his stats. But I do want to know how he managed to kidnap you."

Laughing nervously, Shawn rubbed at the back of his neck. "Uh, funny story that."

"Spencer…"

"Okay, okay, unbend yourself Lassie-face. Gus dropped me off the day before yesterday at Georgia's place, I haven't seen her since before my accident and I really wanted to talk to her, you know? She was really happy to see me, even though she didn't say so out loud, heard her thoughts though, you know? We were talking about my visions, how they're more vivid than ever, and they seem to be triggered by skin to skin contact or strong emotional discharge, like when someone feels something really strongly in an area and I can pick up on it. GeeGee seems to think that I could, with time, learn to control it, like a party trick or something like umph!"

Sighing, Carlton clamped a hand over Shawn's mouth, eyes soft but firm as he glared at the psychic. "Spencer, get to the point."

"Right, anyway, I was leaving Georgia's place, and Gus had agreed to let me catch the bus home, cause it wasn't that far from your place but too far for me to walk so I was at the bus stop when this big, walrus-like man waddled up to me. I ignored him at first, cause he kept making eyes at me but he totally wasn't my type, you know? But then he asked me for the time, which was weird cause everyone has a cell phone these days! But I decided to tell him anyway, and when I was digging for my phone BAM! Next thing I know I'm in the worlds most uncomfortable chair, tied down in a very unkinky way."

Shaking his head, Carlton rubbed a hand over his face. "Can you describe the man to a sketch artist?"

"The Walrus?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, totally." Flashing his pearly whites, Shawn shifted closer to his favorite detective. "Thanks for being all knight in shining armor for me Lassie."

Smiling, Carlton cleared his throat quietly, eyes darting toward the sleeping Spencer Senior nervously. "Of course Spencer. And Spencer?"

"Yeah Carly?"

"You ever get kidnapped on me again Spencer and I will kill you."

Laughing quietly, Shawn reached out to snake a gentle hand around Carlton's neck and pull the detective toward him. "Sure thing Carly-Bear. Now, about that kiss."

Grinning, Carlton twisted closer, hands reaching up to rest on Shawn's cheeks as he met the psychic halfway, lips pressing against Shawn's gently, breath tangling together as they both moaned into the contact. Body warming instantly, Carlton pulled Shawn closer and smiled into the kiss.

_Shawn tasted like pineapple._

---

A/N I would apologize for the wait, but I wont. Because I am trying to not heed to review and rush my way through this fic and ruin it. So, SMILES! I pulled a 3.0 GPA for the semester! YAY.


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